


Strippers, Summer Camp, and Surprise Children from the Future

by Frea_O



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Carmilla (Web Series), Mission: Impossible - Rogue Nation (2015), The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Background Oliver/Tommy, F/F, F/M, Kid Fic, Langley - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-08 03:11:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5481134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frea_O/pseuds/Frea_O
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A gathered collection of multifandom WIPs and mostly complete fics that I'm abandoning in 2015.</p><p>Chapter 1 — 12k of <i>The 100</i> Summer Camp AU<br/>Chapter 2 — 7k of <i>Arrow</i> Stripper AU<br/>Chapter 3 — ~1k of <i>Rogue Nation</i> shenanigans<br/>Chapter 4 — 4k of <i>Carmilla</i> surprise kidfic</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Summer Loathing

**Author's Note:**

> I have several fics that I've started and abandoned this year and I want them off my plate, so I'm gathering them in this collection. There'll be several fandoms represented this year. First up: _Summer Loathing_ , the summer camp AU of _The 100_. 
> 
> Just a note: these fics won't be finished. They mostly stand on their own, though.

**Chapter One**

The stomp of very familiar boots brought an end to the solitude of Bellamy Blake’s hiding place.

He’d known it would have to happen sooner or later. The campgrounds weren’t actually all that big and there were only so many places one could wander without being accosted by another camper. Given that only the full-time counselors had keys to the mess hall, Bellamy figured it was only a matter of time before somebody else figured out it would be ideal for some alone time.

He’d actually expected it to happen sooner. Camp had been in session for nearly two weeks. 

“Oh.” Clarke Griffin stopped short at the back of the room, looking a little owlish in the low light. She still wore her typical camp counselor uniform—an old gray Arkadium shirt, the shorts that were just barely the camp regulation length, the combat boots she’d probably picked up at an army surplus store—but she’d added an old gray sweatshirt that nearly swallowed her whole. She had a sketchbook in her hand. “So this is where you disappear to at night. Should’ve figured.”

“Something I can do for you?” Bellamy asked.

“Nope.” She strode forward like she had absolutely no concept that she might not be wanted or welcome. When your best friend was the son of the president and your mom was the Surgeon General, Bellamy figured, there weren’t many spaces you weren’t invited to. “You’re studying?”

“Nice observational skills. Now we know how you got into Georgetown.” 

She rolled her eyes and, to his ultimate surprise, climbed up onto the picnic table he was using, propping her feet on the bench next to him. She set her sketchbook down on her other side. He had a feeling he knew exactly why Clarke didn’t want to be in her cabin, but he wasn’t sure why bothering him was a viable option, not when they’d barely tolerated each other for years.

“Well, make yourself at home,” Bellamy said, shaking his head. 

“Okay,” she said. “I didn’t know you were taking summer classes.”

He shrugged. He hadn’t mentioned it to any of the other counselors. Of course, sometimes it felt like cutting off his nose to spite his face, as it meant hiking into town to get to the library to take his online tests rather than getting a ride from someone. But he didn’t particularly want favors from any of them.

He also didn’t want Clarke right there, sitting on his table and actually looking at him like she was interested in anything about him. 

“The Iliad?” She leaned over to get a better look at the cover. She smelled like sunblock. “I’m surprised you didn’t read that one already, in like the eighth grade.”

He’d read it in the seventh, actually, but he was far more disgruntled that she’d guessed even that accurately than by his stung pride. “Different translation,” he said without looking up from the legal pad.

“Aha.” 

Her hair cast an interesting shadow, distorted and frayed at the edges, over the lined paper. He forgot everything he meant to write as he stared at the lines. “What are you doing here, Princess? Not that I’m not flattered by such personalized attention, but don’t you have a royal posse, complete with jester—”

“Jasper—”

“—to entertain you?”

“Don’t call me princess.”

Bellamy looked up from the shadow to scoff at the person casting it. “But how can I avoid it when you’re clearly slumming with the peasants right now?”

She gave him an exasperated look, which automatically made him grin back. Clarke Griffin wore every emotion on her face like a neon sign. It should have made her easy prey and therefore dull to poke at, but for some reason, it had never grown old. And now that they were the head counselors—which Bellamy had been dreading a little, as Clarke _always_ had to be right, and more than he liked, she _was_ —he had to get his licks in where he could.

Like now. She sighed at him. “You do seem to be acting a little churlish tonight, yes.”

“Churlish,” he said. “Breaking out the SAT words tonight, I see. Big word for you.”

Clarke angled her head to look down at his notebook, and Bellamy had to forcibly restrain himself from slapping a hand over his work. That damned satisfied smirk that tweaked the corner of her lips informed him that he’d lost that round. “ Uh-huh,” she said. “Right. Big word.”

“No, really. Why are you here?”

“Maybe I just wanted to debate the merits of the Fagles translation with you,” Clarke said.

Bellamy snorted. “Fagles tries too hard. Lattimore’s text reads with better acoustics.”

“Nerd,” Clarke said.

“I think you’re hiding, Princess.” Bellamy leaned forward and scribbled another line in his notebook, which was a mistake. With the way Clarke was sitting on the table, those stupid combat boots of hers on the bench with their toes pointed toward each other, his elbow kept brushing her thigh. She’d already picked up her tan for the summer, and her leg was really smooth. “And if you’re looking for somebody to scratch the itch Collins can’t reach, you came to the wrong place.”

He readied himself, fingers tightening on the pencil, just waiting for the blistering denial. Crossing swords with Clarke was never disappointing. As much as her putdowns could sting, they also left him secretly grinning for hours.

The barb never landed. When he peeked at her out of the corner of his eye, Clarke was frowning thoughtfully. “I actually wasn’t looking for that.”

“Wasn’t offering,” Bellamy said.

“No, I guess you weren’t.” But her gaze was frank all of a sudden, raking over his shorts and his flip-flops and the faded Camp Arkadium tee. He felt like a piece of meat, which was both annoying and kind of fascinating, if he looked at it clinically. Which he was having a bit of a hard time doing just at the moment. “But I do find it interesting that that’s where your mind went.”

Only one way to head this off at the pass, he decided. Bellamy leered at her chest, which was at eye-level thanks to the fact that she was still sitting on the table, leaning back on her hands. “You’ve been kind of obvious moping about the Boy Scout. I figured he wasn’t doing it for you before and now his girlfriend’s running around, and you need somebody to deal with all of those annoying girl feelings of yours.”

“You’re an asshole,” Clarke said, but her voice lacked the usual edge of disgust. Instead, she sounded intrigued, which only worried him more.

“That’s right. I’m an asshole. I’m not that guy who’s gonna kiss it better or whatever the hell you’re looking for.”

“Right. No handholding, no attachments.” Clarke had her eyes narrowed, and he felt a line of sweat start just under the collar of his shirt. “Maybe that’s what I’m looking for.”

“I’m not getting involved in your summer camp drama.” But he tossed his pencil down and closed the textbook over it. He pushed that and _The Iliad_ to the side and propped his head on his hand, giving her his best indifferent look. 

“You’re not that guy, you said so.”

“Just saying if you want to get revenge on Collins, I don’t give a damn,” Bellamy said, shrugging.

“Oh my god,” Clarke said, finally leaning forward. She planted her hands on either side of his face. “Shut up.”

She kissed him imperiously, like he’d figured she would (not that he’d thought about it more than, like, once or twice and that had been a long time ago). Bossiness and Clarke. It figured. One hand tangled into his hair, the other sliding down to grip the collar of his shirt. And she brought tongue into it right away, so fast that he nearly laughed and pulled back to say, “Ever heard of foreplay, Princess?” Instead he reached over to drag her across the table so that she was directly in front of him rather than off to an odd angle. He rested his hands on her knees, thumbs tracing circles on her kneecaps.

Their noses bumped, and Clarke let out an annoyed huff and changed the angle of the kiss. So, yeah, this was what kissing Clarke was like. They’d known each other for six—seven?—years, and he’d been pretty sure until two minutes ago that she hated him, but here she was, grabbing his hands and moving them up to other parts of her body, and crowding as close as she could, even with the awkward angle. She was probably emotionally vulnerable or needy or some shit. He was probably supposed to be the bigger person. Bellamy didn’t much care. 

And his neck was going to cramp if they kept his up. So he pulled her off of the table and into his lap. Her hair was everywhere, and there was so much of it, tangling between his fingers as he ran his hands up her back. When she bit down on his lower lip, he felt a spurt of annoyance, He tugged on the hand still wrapped in her hair.

Immediately, she leaned back, narrowed her eyes at him—which had a ridiculous effect he didn’t want to acknowledge—and asked, “Did you just _pull my hair_?”

“Quit bossing me around.” They were both breathing hard, and he could actually see her pulse racing at the spot just below her chin. He found it hard to look away. “Also, over-eager with the tongue much?”

She reached back to pull his hand out of her hair, and she didn’t let go. “You weren’t complaining a minute ago.”

“Well, I’m complaining now.” 

Clarke leveled a skeptical look at him, propping her elbows behind her on the table. “Fine, if you’re such an expert, you lead.”

“Fine. I will.”

But he didn’t move. He wanted to, but he just…didn’t.

“Well?” Clarke asked, raising an eyebrow at him, and some small of him pointed that he was going to need to do some serious soul-searching later on to discover why he found such a smartass look to be so hot. “Waiting.”

He stopped himself before he could resort to some idiotic platitude and instead rose up, scraping his teeth lightly over her jaw. Her sharp intake of breath almost made him smirk—okay, it did, a little—but he focused on trailing his lips down to the pulse point he’d found so fascinating, and Clarke made a noise that wasn’t quite a whimper. Her free hand bunched the fabric of his T-shirt together. She was still holding onto his left hand, Bellamy realized, fingers threaded through his, he had more important things on his mind. “Okay,” she said as he slipped his hand up the back of her shirt, “I guess your way is acceptable, too.”

“You think?” he asked, turning his head to meet her eye—and together they burst out laughing.

It broke whatever tension had lingered, and suddenly they were kissing with renewed fervor. She was still impatient and demanding, but he didn’t mind, not when she was pulling insistently on his shirt so that she could get her hands on him. He was happy to oblige, tugging the shirt off while she wriggled out of her sweatshirt. She grinned wickedly at him, more than a little mean as she ground her hips against his, and it took every bit of self-control he possessed not to give her the satisfaction of groaning. His eyes crossed a bit, but he didn’t make a sound.

She didn’t share his hang-ups there. Clarke was—well, not precisely loud, but she certainly wasn’t quiet. She whimpered and gasped, practically arching up under his hand when he peeled her tank-top up by inches because he was a sadistic bastard, to both of them apparently. When he finally palmed one of her breasts, she let out a moan that startled both of them.

“You’re a screamer, aren’t you?” Bellamy asked, far too delighted in this turn of events for his own peace of mind. “That’s going to be fun.”

In retaliation, she dug her nails into the skin of his back, and he winced. “Princess has claws,” he said.

“I told you.” She pushed on his shoulder, trying to shift him away from the table, and he realized that the edge of the table must be biting into her lower back. Happy to help, he reclined back on the bench, Clarke straddling him. “Don’t call me that.”

With her leaning over him, hands braced on his chest and that haughty look in place, the name princess had never suited her better. Even the disheveled hair, and the fact that she was down to her bra, her shorts, and those stupid boots couldn’t take away from the fact. But he shrugged. “Whatever you say,” he said, reaching up to loop one of the ringlets around his thumb. “Your highness.”

“Ugh. _Please_ shut up.” Clarke mashed her mouth against his, their teeth clicking, and he abruptly lost the will to laugh. She sandwiched her hand between them, and it began to creep south.

He had a condom, right? Bellamy’s mind felt absolutely blank. He had a condom. He always did. In his wallet, right. “Clarke,” he said.

Clarke unsnapped the button to his shorts, her lips moving down to his shoulder, and it was his turn to arch. “Hmm?”

“Need a moment to—condom—” He squirmed, trying to reach his back pocket with his free hand. 

His hand came up empty. In that moment, lying under a half-naked Clarke Griffin, he had one horrified flash of insight: a memory of tucking his wallet into the little compartment next to his bunk before grabbing his study materials. In his cabin. All the way across camp.

“Shit,” he said, his head hitting the bench with a resounding _thunk_.

“Bellamy?” Clarke asked, eyes wide. “You have a condom, right?”

“I do.” He hit his head a couple more times again for good measure. “In my cabin.”

“You don’t have it with you?” 

“It’s not like I was expecting you to come out of nowhere and sexually accost me,” he said.

She groaned and squirmed, which finally made him gasp. “Please,” he said. “ _Please_ do not do that right now.”

“Oh! Sorry.” The flush that rose up her neck had nothing to do with arousal. “Sorry. I—”

They both looked over as the door to the mess hall banged open. “Clarke? Are you in here?”

Of course it was Boy Scout, Bellamy thought. Clarke, still on top of him, went absolutely still, so when Finn stepped into view, he was treated to the full tableau of Clarke—in quite a state of dishabille—straddling Bellamy’s hips. It would have been a perfectly calibrated revenge, except that Bellamy could feel Clarke actually start to shake.

Which meant it was up to Bellamy to deal with all of this. “Little busy here, Collins. Go away.”

“What the _hell_ is going on?” Boy Scout’s face turned to stone. He strode forward, his fists clenched.

“That should be obvious, even to you,” Bellamy said. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Clarke said under her breath. She finally seemed to come to her senses as she gave Bellamy a brief, panicked look. He shrugged back. “Dammit, Finn, turn around our something.”

The Boy Scout did, but his shoulders were absolutely rigid. Bellamy could practically see the steam spewing out of his ears, but he couldn’t actually drum up that much sympathy. Quietly, he reached down and handed Clarke the nearest discarded article of clothing. She yanked it on as she scrambled off of him. Mortification radiated off of her in waves.

“Nobody’s supposed to be in here right now,” Collins said. 

Bellamy rolled his eyes. “Oops.”

Collins clenched his fists. “Really, Clarke?” he asked, turning on his heel. “You know his reputation.”

Bellamy yawned and rolled to his feet. “Didn’t seem to bother her a minute ago when she was moaning my name,” he said.

“Bellamy,” Clarke said quietly. To Finn, in a much colder voice, she said, “Did you want something? Why are you here?”

Anger rolled off of the Boy Scout. Bellamy could tell, he could just _tell_ that the dude wanted to order Clarke to get away from him so that Collins could punch him in the face. Knowing Clarke’s contrary nature, Bellamy almost wanted him to try. Couldn’t throw stones when you lived in a glass house that still somehow managed to hide a secret girlfriend, he thought. “You and I have rounds tonight,” Collins said instead, his voice remarkably even.

Clarke blinked. “Oh. Well, um, Munroe owes me one. See if she can cover.”

“I should walk you back,” Collins said.

Bellamy hide his grin behind his hand when she bristled. “I can get back just fine on my own. If that’s all? Good night, Finn.”

For a second, it looked like Boy Scout wasn’t going to leave without a fight. Bellamy couldn’t say he minded. He’d been kind of wanting to plant one on the wilderness skills expert’s smug face since he’d swaggered into Camp Arkadium. Finally, though, Collins strode out, slamming the door loudly behind him.

“Mature,” Bellamy said.

Clarke covered her face with her hands, sagging. “What have I done?”

“In the grand scheme of things? Some heavy petting at best.” Bellamy thought hard, mentally clocking himself to see how fast he could get across camp and grab his wallet. And hey, if he could trip Boy Scout while he was at it, more power to him. 

But Clarke, regrettably, looked like she might be coming to her senses. She picked up her sketchbook, all of the color leeched from her face. “This was a mistake. This was a giant mistake.”

Bellamy hadn’t actually known his pride could take that much of a hit before. He kept himself from flinching, but only just, and a coldness settled over him. “Happy to service you in your obvious time of need, Princess.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.” She shoved her hair out of her face.

“Yeah, I know what you meant. It’s okay. I’m not that guy, remember?”

“But—” Clarke squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath, and then another. “You know what? Never mind. I’m just going to go. Thanks for—whatever this was, I guess.”

“Anytime,” Bellamy said, flopping back onto the bench. He pushed down the weird desire to offer to walk her back to her cabin or ask her what she meant. He wasn’t the chivalrous sort, and he didn’t get involved in drama. He and Clarke Griffin weren’t anything to each other except co-counselors. So he gave her a bland, dismissive sort of smile. “My pleasure.”

She sighed and left, those ridiculous boots seeming to make every step echo off of the walls of the mess hall.

He thought he might have heard her pause by the door, but he figured he was just imagining things. The minute she was gone, he ran a hand over his face and let out a long breath, finally trying to get some of his bearings. Hurricane Clarke, he thought. Interrupting one minute, kissing him the next, and gone in the third. She’d _thanked_ him. Great. Just great. Bellamy glared around until his gaze settled on the notebook he’d been writing in when Clarke had interrupted. He resolutely flipped to his page.

The last few lines were completely illegible. 

“Figures,” he said, and decided maybe to just call it a night. He packed up the books, absolutely not looking at the spot Clarke had claimed as her own on the table. When he picked up the gray shirt on the floor, he groaned.

Clarke had put on his T-shirt rather than her tank top. 

She’d left that giant sweatshirt behind, thankfully, so he could either walk bare-chested through camp after curfew, or he could wear the damned sweatshirt. Grumbling, he pulled it on. It smelled like the sunblock she’d been wearing earlier and her shampoo. Of course it did, and of course the scent was enough to get him hot and bothered again.

Clarke Griffin, he decided as he locked up the mess hall and headed for his cabin, was a damned menace. 

**Chapter Two**

In Bellamy’s opinion, mornings could go suck a tailpipe. He preferred to greet the day on his back, shades drawn, and sleeping until he could function as a human being. Rousing him before his alarm clock was met with death threats. Waking him without coffee ready ensured that those death threats would be carried out.

And here he was marching across camp like a chump hours and hours before he needed to be awake. It wasn’t enough that he’d slept poorly, oh no. His conscience had to go and get involved, which was why he squinted miserably at the creeping edges of dawn that turned the sky a pearly shade of pink overhead. He wore his own sweatshirt this time because Clarke’s sweatshirt and tank top were tucked under his arm. It was early enough that nobody would see him sneaking them back to her. Not that he cared, but Clarke might, and it was _easier_ to deal with her in a good mood than in a snit.

When he saw the runner rounding the bend from the women’s cabins, he stopped cursing the morning so much.

She’d pulled her hair back into a braid that was kind of deceptive about how much hair there was, in his opinion, and the boots had been traded for a bright pink pair of sneakers. The white wire for her earbuds bounced along as she kept her pace.

Bellamy planted his feet, crossed his arms, and waited.

The moment she looked up and noticed him was obvious. He finally saw the hitch in her stride, the way her feet slowed. She seemed like she flinched for a second, but he saw her lift her chin and meet his gaze fully. 

And then she ran right past him.

“Really, Princess?” Bellamy asked, spinning around to watch her go. “Not going to be an adult about this?”

She shot him a dirty look over her shoulder, holding up a finger, and as he watched, she ran to the sign about two hundred feet down the road. She paused there, checking her watch, and jogged back to him. “I use the sign to measure distances,” she said as she tugged her earbuds free.

“Or you just didn’t want to talk to me until your conscience got the better of you,” Bellamy said.

“What are you doing awake? You’re never up this early.”

He held out the shopping bag that held her clothing. “You left these behind last night after you tried to ravish me.”

For a long moment, she did nothing but stare at the bag with a distrustful look. She narrowed her eyes at him, studying his face in a way that made him want to shuffle his feet. Something about her seemed uncertain—before her face abruptly closed off. “I did not try to ravish you,” she said, and spun on her heel, walking away toward the lake path.

Bellamy stayed put. “Then you must have missed the bit last night where you doing that thing with your tongue and—”

“Shut up, Bellamy.” She called it over her shoulder.

Since she hadn’t taken the bag and he wasn’t going to trek back to his cabin without, he jogged a couple of feet to catch up to her. She looked him up and down briefly when he fell into step next to her. “Where are we going and why?”

“I’m cooling down. I’ll get cramps otherwise, and you’re not allowed near the girls’ cabins at this hour. And I did _not_ ravish you.”

“Hey, I didn’t say I didn’t enjoy it.” He kept holding out the bag like an idiot. “And I know the shirt looks damned good on me. If you wanted it, you could’ve said so rather than just taking off with it.”

Clarke finally took the bag. Sweat dampened her chest and forehead, making the oversized Georgetown T-shirt cling to her. And she was breathing hard, but not hard enough to break up her speech. “I should thank you for the shirt, actually.”

“You’re not keeping it.”

“Of course not. It’s gross. But thanks to that shirt, Raven no longer hates me,” Clarke said. 

“Because of a shirt?” Raven Reyes’s sudden appearance in camp had shaken things up for everybody, but in particular for Clarke. It didn’t take a genius to spot the tension between Finn Collins’s week-long fling and his long-term girlfriend, who’d been assigned to the same cabin for the summer. But a shirt seemed like a really weird way to end the stalemate.

“Because of _your_ shirt. Which is obviously yours because you wear the same thing every day. And you know.” Clarke looked down at the ground, seemingly embarrassed. “The, um, sex hair.”

“We didn’t have sex, Princess.”

“I know that.”

“Didn’t even come close.”

She scoffed as they rounded the final bend to the lake. “Are you sure?” she asked, shoving her hands into the pockets of her tiny running shorts. He could still hear whatever weird indie pop confection song she’d been listening to playing tinnily through the earbuds slung over her shoulder. “Clarke,” she said, mimicking his voice. “I need a moment—no, I mean a condom—”

Bellamy crossed his arms over his chest and looked at her. That impression had been downright terrible. “You didn’t have one, either. And just because—”

“Are we really about to argue about whether or not we were about to have sex?” Clarke surprised him by laughing.

“I don’t sound like that.”

“Okay, you don’t. But anyway, Raven has decided that now I have moved on from her boyfriend, I’m okay. So thank you for your shirt.”

“I’m not kidding. I want it back.”

“Sure. I was going to drop it off later. I wasn’t expecting you to be up so early.” She set the bag down and surprised him by grabbing his shoulder to brace herself so she could stretch out her thigh. For somebody he’d always thought was completely uptight, Clarke had some strange boundaries. He stayed still, looking out over the lake, as she turned around, switching hands so she could stretch the other leg as well. “Why _are_ you up so early? You’re not a morning person.”

He scuffed the ground with the toe of his flip-flop and debated. In the end, he went with a version of the truth. “We’re supposed to lead the nature walk today and I wanted to make sure things weren’t weird.”

“I didn’t think you were the type to care,” Clarke said, giving him a narrow look as she tucked her phone and headphones into the bag.

“I’m not, until it gets in the way of camp matters. I mean, I know you’ve been masterful about restraining yourself around me for this long, but something must have broken the dam.” Bellamy shrugged like it meant nothing to him. “So here I am, playing the good guy, Princess, and checking to make sure those girl feelings of yours aren’t going to get us all in trouble.”

“You have a very warped definition of ‘good guy,’” Clarke said, but again, she didn’t rise to his bait. Instead, she peeled off her shirt.

Bellamy’s brain short-circuited for a moment. “What, we’re doing this again?” he asked. He didn’t exactly _mind_ , but he would have liked a moment to get with the picture. 

“No.” Clarke rolled her eyes as she toed out of her sneakers. “I’m going for a swim. Last night was a one-time thing that won’t be happening again, my girl feelings aren’t hurt, I can be a damned professional if you can, and I think the gentleman is protesting a bit much, if you ask me.”

Bellamy scowled. “I am not.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Bellamy Blake.” Stripped down to a blue sports bra and her gray running shorts, she gave him a long look and then shrugged. “Coming in?”

“That water is twenty degrees at best. I am staying dry and warm.”

“Your loss.”

And she strode off, high and mighty, straight into the water. She never faltered or flinched. When she’d reached the waist-deep water, she dove in. He got the feeling a cool-down swim was generally part of her routine, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. What if she got a cramp? They were all cautioned not to swim without a buddy. But of course she looked like a natural, cutting easily through the water with a practiced stroke.

Damned woman probably did this every day.

He could go back to bed, Bellamy realized. She was fine. He’d delivered her shirt, he’d done everything he’d set out to accomplish. There was at least a solid hour of sleep in his future if he hurried back, more if he was willing to skip breakfast.

Instead, he took up a seat on the little concrete fire-pit, which was still filled with ashes from Sunday’s campfire, and took out his paperback of _The Iliad_. 

* * *

Clarke was right: she could be professional on their nature walk. In fact, it was as though the previous night—or that morning—had never happened. She led the Walden and Mecha cabins on the walk, dutifully pointing out various bits of flora and fauna from the notebook they’d assembled over the years. She spoke to him like she did every other day of the week, like he hadn’t seen her shirtless twice within the space of twelve hours, or she hadn’t been practically moaning his name the night before.

Bellamy was utterly disgusted to find out that he was indeed more bothered about that than she was, which in turn made him so cranky that even Octavia noticed.

She caught up to him after he’d let the group follow Clarke for a bit. “So who peed in your Froot Loops?” she asked.

“No one.”

“So you’re just Bitchy B for the fun of it right now?”

“Jesus, O,” Bellamy said.

“You gonna be this grumpy the entire walk? Because you nearly took poor little Cisco’s head off over a stupid fern.”

Had he? Great. “I didn’t notice.”

“Well, that’s what I’m here for. To see things more clearly than you, obviously, with my superior vision.” She sniffed at him.

Bellamy felt the first sprouts of humor begin to germinate. “So that’s what they’re calling it these days. In my opinion, your eyes should’ve been brown.”

“Should’ve been, but unlike you, I’m not full of shit.” But Octavia grinned at him.

“Could’ve fooled me. You want something.”

“Of course I do.” They hung back from the group since Clarke had stopped the entire pack so that she could crouch and point out some kind of flower. Campers crowded in around her, hanging onto her every word. Octavia poked Bellamy. “Are you even paying attention to me?”

He spared his sister a glance. “Yeah, I am. You were about to tell me what you wanted.”

“Can I switch rounds with somebody? I don’t want to be on Thursdays anymore.”

“Why do you want to do that?”

“Because Jasper keeps staring at me, and it’s weird. He never takes those goggles off.”

“Jasper’s a good partner for rounds for you,” Bellamy said. In truth, he’d picked the kid because he knew Jasper feared him. He wouldn’t try anything funny with Octavia. “Not happening.”

“Please, Bell?” Octavia did that thing where she made her eyes bigger, so that they seemed to swallow her whole face.

Bellamy shook his head. “Not gonna work.”

“It was worth a shot. You’re mean.”

“’Bout time somebody around here remembers that,” Bellamy said, and the conversation was cut off when he saw that Sienna, who’d picked up a walking stick earlier, was about to use it to take revenge on something Hyacinth had done. He strode off to break the fight up before it could start, and considered that the end of it.

* * *

Of course that wasn’t the end of it. It never was, with Octavia.

* * *

After three days of the silent treatment—at which his baby sister excelled, Bellamy had learned early on in life—he finally resigned himself to his fate. While everybody in the camp watched _The Empire Strikes Back_ in the mess hall, Bellamy sneaked to the back of the room with the scheduling binder. Only he and Clarke and the adults running the camp had the authority to change anything, though others all tried (Clarke erased all of their attempts, and Bellamy punished the offenders with KP duty). Since rainfall had locked everybody inside, it gave him a little while to look things over. 

He signed off on a couple of requests that Clarke hadn’t gotten to. Overhead, rain echoed on the tin roof, on the screen the _Millennium Falcon_ dodged asteroids, and in the back of the room Bellamy mouthed Han Solo’s lines under his breath since it was dark and nobody could see him.

When everything was sufficiently noted in the book, he flipped to the rounds chart and studied it for a long minute. Mondays were Raven and Monty, Tuesdays Finn and Clarke, Wednesdays Miller and Allie, Thursdays Jasper and Octavia, Fridays he took with Munroe, Saturdays belonged to Cappie and Iris, and Evan and Sara rounded out the week with Sundays. Camp policy meant one guy and one girl for rounds, just in case they needed to get into one of the cabins. 

He frowned at the Tuesday slot. Things had been tense between Clarke and Finn since the first week of camp, when Clarke had shown up at breakfast the next morning with a very obvious hickey on her neck, and Raven had shown up at camp the next day with a long hug for her boyfriend, who hadn’t apparently disclosed that much to Clarke. But Clarke hadn’t requested a reassignment. And if she hadn’t asked, maybe he shouldn’t stick his nose into things.

But he remembered the Boy Scout’s disappointment the night before when Clarke had turned him away.

Bellamy flipped over to the programming part of the binder. Tuesday nights looked pretty empty. He paged through until he found the programming suggestions, and Clarke’s page. She had written an entire list (for somebody that liked to draw, her handwriting was abominable) with annotations and a few sketches for emphasis. Bellamy ran his index finger down the page until he found a suitable suggestion. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, he thought, and drew in a new block of programming. Then he went back to the schedule, erased Clarke’s name from Tuesdays, wrote Octavia in instead, and switched Clarke to Thursdays with Jasper. 

Satisfied that he’d found an optimal solution for everybody, he sneaked through the crowd of campers until he found Clarke. She’d set her blanket on the ground near the edge and had a giant bowl of popcorn to herself.

“Finally decided to stop making the rest of us look lazy?” she whispered to him when he sat down uninvited and helped himself to her popcorn.

“Watching me, were you?”

Her hand paused over the popcorn. “No.”

“Sure you weren’t, Princess. Check it out.” He passed over the binder.

She glanced at it once and then looked again, brow furrowing. “I’m teaching a first aid class?”

“It was on your list.”

“Why the change?”

“People are getting a little restless. You can switch to doing Thursday rounds with Jasper.”

One of the nearby campers shushed them. Bellamy and Clarke turned bland stares in that direction, and Bellamy heard the same camper mutter, “Sorry.”

Clarke, out of respect for those around them, leaned closer to Bellamy. “You don’t have to look out for me, you know. I’m dealing with Finn.”

“It’s not looking out for you. Octavia needed a favor, and I needed a reason to grant her that favor.”

“You could have asked.”

“Could have. I didn’t. Unless you _don’t_ want the class and to get out of rounds with Boy Scout. Because, hey, I can change it back.”

Clarke bent her head over the binder, her hair swinging forward so that it obscured her face from his view for a minute. He took another handful of popcorn. He’d always liked Cloud City, he thought as he watched the screen. The brightness of it was just appealing, plus he’d always laughed when they played keep-away with Threepio’s head. 

“It’s a good idea,” Clarke said. “But I mean that, about not looking out for me. You don’t have to be nice to me because you had your tongue down my throat.”

Unfortunately, she’d chosen the moment right as Han, Leia, and Chewie had walked in to find Vader waiting for them. And in the film, the moment was met with a sudden silence, which meant her whisper carried perfectly to the blankets around them. Bellamy saw several heads turn. And he felt Clarke, who’d stayed coolly self-possessed while picking him apart at the seams for the past day, turn bright red.

He couldn’t help it. He leaned back and started laughing.

“God!” The strength of Clarke’s sheer mortification could have powered the generators for hours.

Before she could push herself to her feet and get out of there, though, he snagged her wrist. “If you leave now, it’ll look worse,” he said.

“So my option is to convince them we mean nothing to each other by staying here and sharing my popcorn with you?” Clarke gave him a testy look. “You could leave.”

“The movie’s just getting to the good part,” Bellamy said, meaning every word. He propped his head up on his hands to watch the screen. 

“Pig,” Clarke said.

“You flatter me.” 

“Whatever. Don’t eat all of my popcorn.”

To spite her, Bellamy took an extra large handful and spent the next five minutes eating the kernels one by one. He could practically hear Clarke’s teeth grinding together. It was fun to listen to for a couple of minutes, even with the very obvious whispering all around them. But eventually, as he always did, he got distracted by the movie and just settled in to enjoy one of his favorite mythological retellings.

By the next day, the rumor had spread all over camp, and Clarke looked everywhere but at him. Bellamy found the latter far more annoying than the former. But at least the Boy Scout’s looks in his direction had turned from mild hatred to outright loathing.

**Chapter Three**

Bellamy stared at his hand and said the first thing that came to mind: “Shit.”

Instantly, half of the campers—the ones not gawking themselves—tittered. Graham, the reason Bellamy’s hand was currently leaking blood at an alarming rate, immediately began to scoot away. Bellamy had to bite his lip to stomp down the urge to curse again and to deck the troublemaker with his good hand.

Thankfully for all of them, Miller kept a level head. He stepped between Bellamy and the brat, pushing on his shoulder until Bellamy stepped back and away from the campers. Miller scooped up the hatchet and fitted the guard back into place. “Cady,” he said, “you’re in charge. Walk everybody back to the mess hall and wait for me there. Graham, you listen to Cady. I’m taking our fearless leader to the infirmary, and if I hear of any trouble, I’m giving the Walden cabin a five-point lead in our kickball game.”

Bellamy stared abstractly at the blood running from his palm to his wrist.

“Are you gonna be okay?” Hardison asked.

“He’s gonna be fine,” Miller said, and grabbed Bellamy to pull him along, away from the group. 

Once they were out of hearing range, Bellamy let loose the long line of vociferous cursing he’d been holding back. The throbbing in his hand had become agony, every heartbeat reminding him that he’d just stupidly attempted to stop a hatchet with his hand. Blood wasn’t geysering or anything, but it was definitely dripping more than he liked. By the time they’d reached the medical cabin, the bleeding had slowed, but his hand was still screaming from the pain. He gritted his teeth as Miller pulled open the door for him. 

“Patient for you, Doc,” Miller said.

Bellamy looked inside. “Aw, no,” he said. He’d forgotten that Nurse Simmons had had a few errands to run, and Clarke usually took over for her when the nurse wasn’t around. Apparently today was one of those days, as Clarke was sitting on the cot in the corner—a favorite spot for counselors to catch a nap—with one leg folded under her.

She looked up from her magazine. “What do we have—oh my god, what did you do to yourself?”

“Nice to see you, too, Princess,” Bellamy said.

“He grabbed a hatchet,” Miller said.

Clarke immediately pulled Bellamy over to the sink. “You did what?” 

“It wasn’t intentional,” Bellamy said, and cursed when she ran water over his hand. “A little warning might be nice!”

“Sorry.” At least her wince seemed genuine. She bent to get a better look at the cut across his hand.

“And I grabbed the hatchet because Graham the little asshole was messing around and it was going to hit Diane. It wasn’t like, hurr durr, there’s a hatchet here, I’ll pick it up by the sharpest edge possible,” Bellamy said, giving her a grouchy look when she poked the skin around the cut. 

“It was very heroic,” Miller said, nodding sagely. 

“Don’t you have a camper to go escort to Kane?” Bellamy asked, glaring at his fiend.

Miller was already heading for the door, though he grinned over his shoulder. “Who’s going to catch you if you faint?” he asked.

Bellamy glared at the door as it closed behind Miller. “Like I’d faint.”

“Probably won’t.” Clarke pulled his hand out from under the water. “Stand there for a minute. I need to wash my hands.”

Once she’d pulled on gloves, she patted his hand dry and reached for the antiseptic. “This is going to hurt,” she said.

“Son of a bitch,” Bellamy said, flinching as she cleaned the wound. He whimpered a couple of times and braced himself for the mockery, but Clarke was back in hyper-focused mode, rather than the sarcastic mode he’d come to expect after years of being at summer camp with her. “So, Doc, am I going to lose the hand?”

“Doubtful,” Clarke said, discarding the cleaning wipes and pulling gauze free. She pressed that onto the cut. “Put pressure on that.”

“No jokes about how I’ll be back to playing the piano in no time?”

Finally, she looked up from his hand, leaning her head back a little when she evidently realized how close to his face she was. She blinked at him a couple of times. “That’s an old joke, and a terrible one. Can you even play the piano?”

“Maybe I’m a prodigy.”

“I doubt it.”

“Ouch,” Bellamy said, laughing in spite of himself. “You need to work on your bedside manner.”

“Because I didn’t tell you a lame joke?”

“Right. Princess hates joke. I forgot.” And she did, too. He had a fond memory of a campfire circle with the other CITS a few years back, and Clarke’s frustration with a repeatedly flubbed punchline only growing as the others laughed. 

“Whatever.” She lifted the gauze, focusing her attention back on his hand. “The good news is you’re going to keep the hand and you probably won’t even need stitches.”

“That’s a relief. So I can go?”

“But you _do_ need a tetanus shot.”

Bellamy’s eyes narrowed as she smeared something on the cut and put fresh gauze in place over it. “You can do that here, right?”

“Nope.”

“Oh, no,” he said. “Not happening.”

Clarke taped the gauze down. “I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

“I’m not going.”

He expected an argument. Clarke just gave him a mocking look. “Scared of needles, huh?” she asked, leaning in a little closer like she was encouraging him to tell her a secret.

“No, and I don’t need a shot. I’m not going.”

“Don’t worry.” Clarke stepped out of his personal space and peeled off her gloves at the same time. He could have sworn there was a glint of devilry in her eyes. She might actually be a demon in a really hot body. “The needle isn’t that scary, but I’ll hold your hand if you need it.”

“Funny,” Bellamy said flatly.

She gave him a pleased look. “Do you think so? I’ll have to remember that one. C’mon, you big baby.”

Bellamy lifted his chin. “I won’t do it, and you can’t make me.” 

Twenty minutes later, he let out what he was sure was a theatrical sigh as he paged through an outdated copy of _Entertainment Weekly_. In the chair next to him, Clarke looked up from her binder, glanced at his hand, and went back to reading. The waiting room was empty apart from the two of them.

It was, the traitorous part of him pointed out, the most time they’d spent together since the _Star Wars_ movie night.

* * *

Luckily, she was right about one thing: he didn’t need stitches. And the shot barely hurt—though he glared at Clarke the entire time, silently daring her to mock him. She didn’t, but she paid close attention when the doctor checked the cut and gave it a second cleaning. He mouthed “Nerd” at her when the doctor wasn’t looking, but he couldn’t deny that he was kind of grateful she was there. He’d split a line up the middle of his right hand, and changing bandages with his left hand was going to be awkward as hell. Not that he was going to ask her to change the bandages for him. They’d spent enough time together in this bizarre-o summer.

The doctor also prescribed an antibiotic cream for his hand, which meant they had to stop at a pharmacy on the way back to camp. “Why can’t I just use Neosporin?” Bellamy said as they climbed out of the van. “Seems to work fine for everything else.”

“You’re turning down good drugs?” Clarke asked.

“It’s not good drugs, it’s skin cream.”

“You just want a scar,” Clarke said, and they stepped into the air conditioned store. Bellamy swore that both of them let out a happy sigh. “They’re not as manly as you think they are.”

“I’m getting Neosporin,” Bellamy said.

“Suit yourself.” But Clarke pulled up short, stopping so fast that Bellamy collided with her, his hand automatically moving up to her shoulder to brace both of them. He winced when that sent a fresh burst of pain through the cut.

A second later, though, he forgot all about the twinge in his hand. Clarke had spotted what he’d obviously missed, which was a cluster of people in matching green T-shirts that all read Lakegrounds Cabins on the front.

“Great,” he said. “That just caps it.”

“Let’s just get what we came here to get,” Clarke said, turning so that she could propel him forward. “And ignore them.”

It just figured that they were both in their blue Arkadium T-shirts like some sort of stupid Sharks vs. Jets sort of thing. There wasn’t any love lost between the Ark kids and the Grounders. A prank war had started sometime in the 80s and people took it way too seriously, in Bellamy’s opinion (he was, he would sure Clarke would point out, ignoring the fact that two summers before, he had been the one leading the party to put vaseline on all of the doorknobs at Lakegrounds). He grumbled under his breath as he let Clarke push him along into the aisles.

“Luckily, we don’t have much to pick up,” Clarke said.

“We’d have less if you hadn’t texted everybody to see if they wanted anything.”

“It wasn’t like I knew there would be Grounders here.” Clarke put a bag of Monty’s favorite chips in the shopping basket. 

“Friggin’ Grounders,” Bellamy said. He was aware that it would be faster to split up and each grab half the list, but he trailed after Clarke, holding the basket for her while she loaded requested items inside. “Bad enough that we share a lake with them, now we have to share air conditioning?”

Clarke grabbed two bags of M&Ms. “You’re a real grouch. Which is ironic.”

“Why’s that?” 

She glanced over her shoulder and looked him up and down once. “Because you look like the Grinch when you smile, but you act like him when you don’t.”

“I do _what_?”

“Octavia thinks so, too.”

“You and O have been talking about me?”

“Nope,” Clarke said.

Bellamy gave her a narrow-eyed stare. “Really? The Grinch?”

“Just count your blessings that you’re not actually green and fuzzy.”

“Something else to add to awesome list of things to be thankful for,” Bellamy said, rolling his eyes. In the first aid aisle, he paused to study the different versions of Neosporin. “Is it an insult to my manhood if I get the pain-relief kind?”

“Oh, for the love of…” Clarke grabbed the package off of the shelf and tossed it in the basket.

As it always did, breaking through her calm made him want to grin. “The regular stuff’s cheaper.”

“I’ll buy it for you if it saves us a ten-minute debate.”

“I think that really does impugn my honor,” Bellamy said.

“No, really.” She rolled her eyes at him. “My treat.”

“Oh, my god,” said a new voice, and they both looked over to see Anya, the head Grounder for a couple of years now, leaning against the endcap. “This thing you Ark kids call flirting is actually pathetic.”

Bellamy abruptly stopped smiling.

“Were you following us around?” Clarke asked, her eyes narrowed as she tilted her head at the Grounder. 

“Mating rituals of the primitive kind have always been fascinating to advanced societies,” Anya said.

“Primitive?” Bellamy took a half-step forward. “Being born without a stick up my ass doesn’t make me primitive.”

“Bellamy, _stop_ ,” Clarke said under her breath. 

But a couple of Anya’s cohorts from the Lakegrounds sauntered up, flanking her on either side. Bellamy vaguely recognized one of them. They’d had run-ins with Lincoln since he lived closest to Camp Arkadium, but Bellamy didn’t particularly _like_ the tool. He especially didn’t like the way Lincoln look him over now and leaned forward to mutter something to Anya. 

She waved him off. “Is that what you call a taunt?” she asked Bellamy. “God, I pity you camp kids, I really do. You’re barely literate.”

This time, Clarke clamped a hand around Bellamy’s elbow, fingernails digging in sharply to get his attention. “What do you want, Anya?” she asked.

Anya’s eyes cut down to Bellamy’s elbow and back up. “You let your girl boss you around?”

“Bossing me around is the only thing that gives her life meaning,” Bellamy said. “Doesn’t make you any less of a—”

“ _Bellamy_ ,” Clarke said. She started to pull on his arm. “Let’s just go and leave the idiots to their playground mentality.”

“The whats?” one of the cronies asked.

Clarke glared at him. “Did I stutter?” she asked, and it took everything Bellamy had not to snicker. “Bellamy, let’s go.”

He gave the Grounders a sarcastic salute with his free hand as she pulled him away. “Sorry. Boss’s orders.”

They’d almost reached the end of the aisle—to rather suspicious snickering behind them—when one of the cronies called, “Hey, Blake! Think fast.”

Turning, Bellamy easily caught the box thrown at him. The snickering from the Grounders only increased when Bellamy saw what he was holding: a box of condoms, size small. Anger began to burn the tips of his ears unpleasantly as he looked up at the smirking pack of Grounders. 

“Just want to make sure you primitives stay safe,” Anya said, all innocence.

“Ugh,” Clarke said.

Bellamy ignored both of them and stalked back toward the group, which had gathered around the condoms and pregnancy tests and lubes. He could feel his face wanting to burn, which was ridiculous because he wasn’t the type to blush. Keeping his expression neutral, he carefully set the box on the shelf and picked out his preferred brand instead. “I appreciate your concern,” he said with his largest, most sarcastic grin. “Though maybe you should look into these things yourselves. The last thing the world needs is more Grounders.”

Interestingly, one of the silent idiots in the back straightened. “What did you just say to me?” he asked, stepping forward into Bellamy’s personal space.

Good god, Bellamy thought, staring up and trying to keep his face absolutely blank. The kid looked like he could bench press a refrigerator and somebody had overdone it with the height hormones. Staring up into the Grounder’s face, Bellamy experienced a brief and humiliating vision of being dragged back to the emergency room again, only this time he might actually need stitches. And, proving that having good grades didn’t automatically grant one common sense, he yawned in the kid’s face.

He was pretty sure the only reason the kid didn’t punch him was because Lincoln grabbed the kid’s arm.

“Look, if it’s a fight you really want,” Bellamy said, ignoring the fact that his knees weren’t entirely steady, “then let’s stop being twelve-year-olds about this. Let’s settle this honorably.”

“And just what are you proposing, Blake?” Anya asked.

Bellamy gave the matter some thought.

“A softball game?” Clarke asked a few minutes later, as she stomped out to the van. How she could stomp and still look dignified at the same time had always mystified Bellamy, as stomping was an activity meant for spoiled, petulant children. But Clarke always made it work. Maybe it was the righteous anger rolling off of her in waves. 

He climbed into the passenger seat of the busted up camp van. “It wasn’t like I could suggest a bar brawl or a shoot-out at high noon,” he said. “And we’re pretty damn good at softball.”

Clarke glared at him as she started up the van, which caught on the third try. “It’ll just lead to the prank war starting all over again.” 

“Not if we pulverize their asses. Which we will.”

“You’ve got a lot of faith in us all of a sudden.”

“You still got that rocket of a fastball?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. How do you even remember that?”

She’d given Murphy a black eye with it once, Bellamy thought. He only shrugged. Acknowledging that he’d paid more attention to her over the years than he’d let on would only give her more power. “I’m a details guy.”

“Right, uh-huh.” But her eyes narrowed and she gave him that frank, assessing look that only made him want to fall back on his old ways and start mocking her for being such a straight-and-narrow crusader. That look made him want to squirm. Usually she observed him with scorn; today, she seemed to be studying him like a puzzle, and he definitely did not like that. She put the van into reverse. “You’re a hard person to read, you know. One minute I’m convinced you hate all of us and Camp Arkadium, and the next: softball game.”

“What about it?” Bellamy asked, not letting himself slump when she finally looked away to back the van up.

“It’s the most ‘camp counselor’ thing I’ve ever seen you do, that’s all. That, and your little stalwart moment with the hatchet earlier.”

“Right,” Bellamy said, stretching the word out into a drawl. “A regular hero, that’s me.”

“You may not want people to think that.” Clarke shrugged. “But you’re not as awful as you pretend to be.”

That toxic crap needed to die in a fire right now. “Don’t get attached, Princess,” Bellamy said. “I’m still the same asshole I’ve always been.”

“Sure you are.” She shook her head and Bellamy felt a sting of insult that she’d dismissed his very valid point easily. When she looked at him, that sunny smile that he hated was on her face. “It’s okay. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Ugh,” Bellamy said, and closed his eyes, leaning his head against the window. “Now if you’ll pardon me, you’re interrupting my nap.”

“Sweet dreams,” Clarke said, and she sounded so suspiciously cheerful that he kept his eyes closed for a good five minutes.

When he opened them—just a sliver, just to check—Clarke wasn’t smiling anymore. She looked distinctly agitated and almost upset. Bellamy kept his eyes nearly completely shut, never moving, but he couldn’t miss the way she kept sneaking glances his way. Every time, her frown deepened, like she was outright unhappy about something, but she never said a word.

He closed his eyes again and wondered what was bothering the camp princess so much, and why it kind of hurt that she didn’t wake him up and talk to him about it.

When they got back to camp, he feigned waking up with a partly-overacted stretch and yawn, and Clarke gave him the same inscrutable smile she always did. “Keep that hand dry and clean,” she said, and, hopping out of the van, walked away.

**Chapter Four**

News spread like the Clap in a place like Camp Arkadium, so within a couple of hours of Bellamy and Clarke’s return, the slightly tired old gossip of “Oh my god, did you hear that Clarke and Bellamy totally made out? Finn Collins is _pissed_!” had become “Bellamy challenged the Grounders to a softball game and we’re gonna kick their asses!” Bellamy had so many counselors come up to him with “Is it true?” that they cancelled the campfire for the evening, put on a movie for the campers, and set up a war room in the kitchen.

He wasn’t surprised by the fact that nobody said a word against having the game. Softball was a time-honored tradition at Camp Arkadium. Usually the cabins teamed up (Mecha-Walden, Mill-Agro, Rain-Sky) in various ways for a gigantic tournament at the end of the camp session, so Bellamy knew everybody in the room could play. But since the counselor-camper game had been disbanded in 2005, the counselors had never played together as a team, which meant it was time to talk strategy.

“The Grounders won the coin toss,” Bellamy said, crossing his arms over his chest as he addressed the kitchen at large. His coworkers had all found various places to sit—how on earth Boy Scout had managed to scale the refrigerator, he didn’t want to know—so they crowded atop the counters and any available chairs. “Which means they’ll have home field advantage.”

The news was met with boos and jeers, like he expected. “Who tossed the coin?” Jasper asked. “Was it you or them? Filthy cheaters.”

“It was Lincoln,” Bellamy said. “He was the only one we could trust not to cheat.”

“Including Clarke?” Monty asked.

Bellamy gave the Agro cabin counselor a wry look. “ _Especially_ Clarke.”

“Hey!” Clarke, who’d been leaning against the whiteboard wall behind Bellamy, stepped forward and jabbed him in the shoulder with a finger. “Not nice.”

“Care to deny it, Princess?” Bellamy asked, and Clarke squinted at him. “Thought not.”

Murphy, in the back of the group, gagged. “Oh my god, get a room.”

“Shut up,” Miller said from the other side of the counter.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Clarke said, going back to the board and pointedly ignoring Murphy, “they have home field advantage, which is probably for the best since their field has actually been maintained.”

“Where’s your loyalty, Clarke?” Monty asked. “I mowed ours last week.”

“It was two weeks ago, and Sterling ripped up his calf sliding into third last week. It’s not traitorous to admit they have a better field.” Clarke drew a baseball diamond on the board. “So…who plays what?”

“Catcher,” came a voice in the back, and Bellamy watched Clarke go still.

Indeed, the entire room seemed to echo the movement. All fidgeting stopped; Bellamy was sure he heard somebody actively gasp. Only Octavia, perched on a giant can of olives, smiled.

“What is it?” Raven asked, giving the room around her a confused look. “You afraid of catchers or something here at this backwards-ass camp?”

Clarke, amazingly, was the first to recover. “Nope,” she said, and as the room watched her warily, she wrote Raven’s name down over home plate on her diagram. Her hand seemed to hover for a moment. Bellamy was the only one close enough to see her swallow hard before she moved to the pitching mound and wrote her own name in.

“Oh, now I get it.” Raven sighed and twirled her ever-present screwdriver. “That just figures.”

Clarke’s brief glance down told Bellamy that Raven was not the only one unhappy with this development.

He cleared his throat. “Well, that’s two of the positions,” he said, and he ignored Clarke’s swift look of surprise. “Anybody else? I’m first base—who’s on second?”

Instantly, Jasper sat up. “No! Who’s on first!”

“Ignoring that,” Bellamy said.

“Third,” Octavia said, and quite a few people turned to look at her. 

“Do you even—do you even know what a glove _is_?” Jasper asked for the room.

Octavia shrugged. “It’s just some dumb sport. I bet I could figure it out. Can’t be that hard.”

“No way, Bellamy.” Murphy’s head shot up and he waved his hands emphatically. “No way are we putting a novice on a base for this game. We _have_ to win this game.”

“Shouldn’t you be excited to be visiting your old home, Murph?” Octavia asked, rolling her eyes. She flicked a lock of hair over one shoulder, appearing thoroughly bored. “How do we know you’re not going to immediately join up with all of your Grounder buddies before the game even starts?”

Murphy’s face contracted with fury. “It was _one_ summer,” he said between his teeth. His hands wrapped around the edge of the counter, his knuckles bright white against the flushed red skin.

Bellamy and Clarke exchanged a look: time to head this off at the pass.

“Tell you what,” Bellamy said. “We’ll try you out at third, O. And if our illustrious pitcher thinks you’re good enough, you play third. Fair?”

There was some grumbling from the back of the room, but at least nobody was brave enough to outright defy Bellamy in front of everybody. Putting Clarke in charge of the decision would temper any dissent even further, a fact she seemed aware of herself if the raised eyebrow she sent his way had anything to say about it. He gave her a tiny shrug back, and they returned to filling out the board and working up a practice schedule.

He let Clarke take charge of the meeting after that, as he was too busy squinting at Octavia’s name over third base.

Octavia Blake had never played a single game of softball at Camp Arkadium, a fact that she regularly boasted about to anybody that would listen. So where had this change of heart come from? 

* * *

Bellamy woke up the next morning to find seven goats and seventeen chickens let loose in the mess hall and a Lakegrounds flag sneering at them from the flagpole in the middle of the main lawn.

“We’ll let you know when the game’s going to be,” Anya had said.

Bellamy had not expected the message to be delivered through livestock. “July seventeenth it is,” he said, glaring at the chicken who’d just pecked his foot. 

Miller let out a long sigh as he corralled a particularly stubborn goat into a dog kennel they’d borrowed from the vet’s office down the street. “They couldn’t have just sent a text?” “Freaking Grounders,” Bellamy said, and bent over to try and grab the chicken again.

He’d picked a bad day, he discovered, to wear flip-flops.

* * *

The day didn’t improve much from there. Activities were thrown off schedule in the chaos of trying to wrangle the livestock into cages, and that had only excited the campers. So Bellamy and Clarke had an uphill battle on their hands already, which wasn’t made any easier by the fact that Monty came bearing bad news: a branch had fallen on top of Agro Cabin during the wind gusts, knocking away shingles and damaging the roof. Which would have been fine—if the handyman weren’t on vacation for the next few days, visiting his mom several hours away. So Bellamy bit the bullet, gave up his rather cushy lifeguard duties for the day, and strapped on a tool belt instead.

“You know,” Miller said as he and Bellamy finished prying off the last of the damaged shingles. Sweat gleamed on his skin. “I’m starting to think we’re a couple of masochists.”

Bellamy grunted. “Gee,” he said, swiping at his brow with the t-shirt he’d hung at his waist. It came away soaked. “What gave you that idea?”

“Hot as balls up here, that’s what. Ugh.” Miller sent a busted shingle winging off toward the trash pile. “Should you be doing that with your hand like that?”

“It’s fine,” Bellamy said, a statement not even in the same neighborhood as the truth. His right hand was outright throbbing by this point, not at all helped along by the heat and the humidity. “I can barely feel it.”

“You pass out on me up here, I’m taking pictures and sending them to your girlfriend.”

“That’s cold,” Bellamy said, pulling up the last broken shingle with his uninjured hand. “First because she’s not my girlfriend, second because she’d probably just study the pictures for medical reasons. Or hang them on a wall.”

Miller laughed. “She’s not _that_ mean.”

“Have you met her?”

“You two bring out the worst in each other, but she’s actually really nice.” Miller pried up the last of the roofing nails and settled back into a crouch to admire their handiwork. “Fixed up your hand, didn’t she?”

“And she’ll yell at me for undoing all her hard work.” Bellamy shook out the offending limb. He caught just a brief glance of something crossing Miller’s face. “What the hell is that look for?”

“Nothing.” Miller rubbed his hand over the bottom half of his face, plopping down to take a break. “So you two aren’t secretly doing it in the arts and crafts cabin every night, then? Looks like I’m going to lose five bucks.”

Bellamy stared at his friend. “The arts and crafts cabin? Seriously?”

“What about it?”

“There’s not really any comfortable surfaces in the place is the first thing that comes to mind.” He had a flash, just a brief memory of Clarke’s impatient look as she’d pushed him back onto the bench in the dining hall, and how uncomfortable she must have been. “And also we’re not hooking up. Sorry to disappoint the betting pool.”

Miller began humming. “I’ll get my five bucks this year, yeah.”

“You will n—what the hell do you mean, this year?”

“Incoming,” Miller said instead of answering him, and Bellamy twisted at the waist. Clarke, hair bound up in a ponytail, was making her way across to the cabin with a couple of bottles of water dangling from the fingers of one hand. 

She stopped just under the front porch and sheltered her eyes from the sun with her hand. “How go the roof repairs? Is it fixable?”

“Yup,” Miller said, once again back to his regular laconic ways. “Those for us?”

“Thought you could use them. Bellamy’s not using that hand too much, is he?”

“Ask him yourself.” Miller, because Clarke couldn’t see him, turned and gave Bellamy his biggest shit-eating grin. “You’re not using that hand too much, are you, dearie?”

“Shut up.” Bellamy threw a piece of shingle at him. Miller ducked and it flew right over him. An instant later, they both heard Clarke’s curse and the scuff of her sneakers against the ground as she dodged. “Oh, shit.” 

“What the hell was that for?”

“Him, not you.” Bellamy rose to his feet and walked over to the edge to peer down. “Sorry about that. Really. And that hand’s fine. See?” He held it up, wincing internally at just how soiled the bandage looked by now, and wiggled it.

Clarke sighed. “Get down here. Looks like I need to change the bandage.”

Miller, as Bellamy headed for the ladder, only grinned and shook his head, rubbing his fingers together in the universal sign for money. Bellamy gave him another universal sign in return—with his good hand. 

* * *

As soon as Monty climbed onto the chair to take his place and relieve Bellamy of his lifeguarding duties, Bellamy stripped out of his shirt and cannonballed off the end of the dock. The afternoon had been hotter and more miserable than Satan’s armpit so far, so he was going to take advantage of a swim. Especially since Clarke wasn’t around to nag him about his hand.

“I give it a six,” a voice called when he surfaced.

Spoke too soon. Bellamy turned and flicked his hair back. “That was at least an eight,” he said.

Clarke shook her head. “With a form that sloppy? Six was a pity score. Should’ve been a four.”

“My form was perfect,” Bellamy said. He had to squint up because the light was so bright around her, but he didn’t mind until he noticed one particular detail. “Nice shirt.”

“This old thing?” She hooked her thumb under the collar. “Thanks.”

“Also, it’s mine.”

She twirled a lock of her hair and tilted her head like a valley girl, which only made him narrow his eyes at her. “Possession is nine tenths of the law,” she said while he treaded water and glared.

Jasper swam by with a lazy backstroke. “Get a room, you two.”

Bellamy idly thumped the nerd on the stomach, making him sink with a splutter and a splash. As he swam away, he shot Bellamy a dark look. Bellamy, on the other hand, wasted no time in turning back to Clarke, who had the camp activities binder propped up against her hip. “So about my shirt—what are you looking at?”

She’d gone the color of raw milk, staring at something behind him, so he twisted to get a better look. Nobody was actively drowning, though Finn and Raven looked like they were enjoying giving each other mouth-to-mouth.

He was glad he wasn’t close enough to hear the squelching noises.

On the deck, Clarke seemed to falter. For a second, she looked stricken, but she wrenched her gaze from Finn and Raven down to the binder in her hands. “I was going to ask you something, but never mind. I should go,” she said, already starting to turn.

Bellamy hoisted himself up to where he could fold his arms over the top of the deck. He looked at his shirt, which had a spot of red paint on the shoulder from the time they’d repainted the canoe trailer, and shook his head as an idea formed. “You should stay.”

“I should?” Clarke gave him a blank looked. “What?”

“Jump in and cool off. Water’s nice.”

“No thanks.”

“Chicken,” Bellamy said.

“I have a lot of work to do.” But she didn’t seem in any hurry to leave, he noticed.

“Suit yourself.” Bellamy gave her his most insincere grin.

He saw the first crack in the dam when she crouched close to him and gave him an exasperated look. Her hair nearly brushed his arm. “What’s your angle?” she asked. “You usually can’t wait for me to go away.”

“Think of the revenge,” he said. “Boy Scout’s being a little obvious with the public make-out, after all. You want him to know he can’t beat you? Jump in. Take a swim with me. Have the time of your life, Princess. There’s no way he can top that.”


	2. High Heels and Tearaway Pants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The _Arrow_ Stripper/Dance Mob AU that I'm still not sure why I wrote!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little context since this story starts extremely _in media res_. This is a college AU. Felicity, a computer science major, is friends with Barry, who has a side-job stripping at a club called the Foundry, which is half male strippers and half female strippers. Dancers at the Foundry are known for wearing masks—and very little else. While visiting Barry at work one night, Felicity fixes all of the computer problems at the Foundry and meets a few of Barry's masked friends.
> 
> The problem? She's not sure if she's more attracted to Oliver or to Laurel. Who are exes, and roommates. And trolls.

On Tuesday, she headed off-campus rather than dragging herself back to her dorm. Her backpack straps dug into her shoulders like two individual knives, but the day was finally one of those nice ones spring promised everywhere else but in Starling City. She’d come from a desert climate and yet somehow, Starling seemed to have even worse weather. So she’d learned to cherish the very few pleasant days they received before the heavy, oppressive blanket of summer heat fell over everything.

Her walk took her to Laurel and Oliver’s, unsurprisingly. “You are so screwed,” she said under her breath as she trotted up the front walkway, hauling on her backpack so that it would stop bumping against the small of her back. 

But they’d said to come over any time she liked. So this wasn’t just her pathetic answer to a crush. This was...being friendly. Yeah, friendly, she decided. This was hanging out with the cool older students off campus, part of the college experience.

Felicity snorted as she let herself into through the open screen door. Like anybody else’s electrical engineering experience involved visiting friends at work and doing organic chem worksheets with a ripped dude who wore nothing but a Speedo and tear-away track pants, his usual work uniform.

“Anybody home?” she called, stepped into Laurel and Oliver’s kitchen. “At least I hope somebody’s home because the door’s wide open and you guys have some seriously nice stuff, like a burglar could just walk out with any of that. And—oh god, wait, what if there’s actually a burglar in here?”

“Pretty sure there’s not, since we’re in the den,” Oliver called back. “But if you see somebody, feel free to karate chop them before they take all of Laurel’s snowglobes.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Laurel said.

“Very funny, ha, ha,” Felicity called back. “For that, I’m taking a Gatorade.”

“Bring some for us, too!”

Felicity quietly groaned. If they needed Gatorade, they were working out. And working out meant less clothing than usual.

She was right about half of it, at least: Oliver was working out, doing pull-ups at the bar in the corner. Laurel either was on a break or had finished working out because she lay upside down on the couch, piles and piles of textbooks around her head as she read a sheaf of papers. Upside down. They were just as dishabille’d as promised, though, for Oliver wore nothing but gym shorts, and Laurel had stripped down to a sports bra and track pants.

“Ugh,” Felicity said before she could stop herself.

“Yeah, I know.” Laurel looked over and grinned with her tongue between her teeth. “It’s disgusting, right? He keeps losing count.”

“If somebody would stop shouting random numbers,” Oliver said, but he didn’t seem particularly bothered or affected as he kept doing pull-ups.

Felicity bit her own tongue before she could point out that her reaction had been more toward the amount of rather amazing muscle on display, as that would only get her in trouble. She set a green Gatorade by Oliver and handed a yellow one to Laurel, keeping the pink one for herself.

Laurel writhed a little and, flexing rather unnecessarily (in Felicity’s opinion), sinuously pulled herself by her ankles so that she was sitting on the back of the couch. She closed her eyes to enjoy the Gatorade.

“Ugh,” Felicity said again, before she could stop herself. She looked at the ceiling. “Why did God make me so bisexual when there are all of these hard-bodied dancers around and—oh, shit! Why did I say that out loud? And why are you both looking at me like that?”

“Bisexual, huh?” Oliver said. He dropped to the ground and dusted his hands off on his shorts. 

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Felicity said, stuttering way too much to put any truth behind that statement. “I mean, it’s just…”

“I think that means she’s attracted to both of us,” Oliver said to Laurel.

Laurel’s grin was going to feature in several of Felicity’s naughtier dreams for a long time, she decided, gulping. “We could share her,” she said, capping her Gatorade. “I could take Tuesdays and Thursdays, Ollie gets Mondays and Wednesdays, with every other weekend.”

“We’re magnanimous like that,” Oliver said, crossing his arms over his rather impressive pecs.

Felicity made a small, choked noise. “Oh, God.”

“Magnanimous,” Laurel said. “I like that. Good word.”

“Thank you,” Oliver said.

Felicity’s knuckles were white on the bottle of her sports drink. She backed up a step, which only made Laurel climb off of the couch. “I am working twenty hours a week fixing stuff at the Foundry,” she said, the words rushing out of her. “And that’s on top of a full course load and all of the clubs that look good on my résumé—which is necessary for a bright future, I might add! What makes you think I have time for one of you, let alone two?”

“She’s got a point, Ollie,” Laurel said, and Felicity wished she wouldn’t stand so close. “She’s kind of busy.”

“Threesome?” Oliver said. “For old time’s sake?”

Felicity could actually feel the top of her head about to come off. “For old time’s sake?” she said, feeling breathless. “You’ve done this before?  And why me? Wait, you really have done this before? Did you just really say th-threesome? What is even happening right now?”

Oliver broke first; he stepped back and shoved his palm against his mouth as laughter spilled out. Laurel shook her head, but Felicity continued to stare. She’d never been quite this terrified and turned on at the same time, and she definitely wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

“Sorry, Felicity,” Oliver said, straightening up. “It was too fun to mess with you. You don’t have to worry about threesomes.”

“Oh,” Felicity said, putting her hand on her chest. “Because I’m not sure I’d be able to look at either one of you in public again without turning bright red, and really, our friendship doesn’t need that. And I’m pleading the fifth about who I’m more attracted to, before you get into that weird competitive thing you do.”

Laurel dropped back onto the couch and folded her legs under her in a way that should snap her joints but never did. “You know he’s gay, right?” she asked.

“Wh-what?” Felicity asked.

“He’s been dating Tommy since we broke up,” Laurel said. When Oliver gave her a look, she shrugged. “Everybody knows but her, Ollie. It’s not fair to mess with her and lead her on.”

Gay. Dating Tommy.

It made _so much sense_.

“Nobody around here is as straight as I thought they were, are they?” Felicity asked.

Laurel toasted her with her Gatorade. “Nope. Including you, apparently.”

“And you?” Felicity asked. “Are there N’Sync songs that describe you, too?”

“I like pretty people,” Laurel said, shrugging. She gestured at Felicity. “Case in point.”

“Eep,” Felicity said.

“And on that note, I’ll stop fifth-wheeling you. I’m off to see my boyfriend.” And Oliver strolled out the door, not bothering with his shirt. Felicity watched him cross the lawn and shook her head. The neighbors probably never had to subscribe to Cinemax with him around. 

“So about that Tuesdays and Thursdays arrangement,” Laurel said.

“Are you hitting on me right now?” Felicity asked, heart thudding. “Just like that? Because wow, the confidence is really working for you—I’m seriously—”

Sara burst in, sweaty and out of breath. “Whatever you’re doing, pause it,” she said, barreling through right between them. Felicity jolted back; she hadn’t realized how close to the couch she’d stepped.

From the annoyed look on Laurel’s face, her friend clearly mirrored her annoyance. “What on earth is the matter with you?” she asked her sister.

“This!” Sara snatched up Laurel’s tablet and navigated through. She held it out in vindication. “We can’t let this go ignored.”

“What the hell even is it?”

In short: a video. Felicity was too frazzled to pay much attention at first. She heard the pop song opening, saw a crowd, and nearly rolled her eyes. Weren’t flash mobs a thing of the past? Apparently not, for a woman with dark hair popped up in the middle of the cafeteria and started to dance, and Felicity’s jaw dropped.

“That’s Nyssa,” she said. “The one from my Irish Lit class, the one that was asking about the blonde in the mask—”

“What blonde in the mask?” Laurel asked, but Sara shushed them both.

On the video, more and more dancers fell into the crowd until they were doing some kind of Mary Poppins chimney sweep number on the tables. How they were avoiding stepping on lunch trays, Felicity had no idea, but she had to admit that even with her complete lack of coordination and understanding of dance, those seemed like some serious moves. Sara, holding the tablet, grew more and more agitated the longer the dance went on, though Felicity had no idea why. It was just a flash mob with her classmate. What was the big deal?

She discovered why at the very end of the video as every single dancer stopped and pulled something out of his or her pocket. As one, they donned Foundry masks and pointed at the camera.

“See?” Sara said.

“Well, that’s dramatic,” Laurel said, taking the tablet away from her sister. “What’s their problem?”

“They’re challenging us. That’s their problem. That is a challenge.” Sara bounced back on her heels and then did a backwards somersault, winding up against the couch with a grumpy look. “Who the hell do they think they are? They’re an official dance team, we do this for a living. We’ll whoop their asses.”

“Or we’ll ignore them.” Laurel leaned over and pulled on a pair of honest to god reading glasses and Felicity wanted to groan. Was she serious? Apparently she was, for she frowned at the tablet Sara had shoved at her, spreading her thumb and forefinger apart to enlarge an image. “It’s a dance mob. It doesn’t even have that many hits. We ignore it, it goes away.”

“We can’t do that,” Sara said.

“Why not?”

“It’s a challenge!”

“So?”

“She’s going to make Felicity’s life a living hell in Irish Lit if we don’t answer,” Sara said.

Felicity crossed her arms over her chest, hunkering forward. “I can handle Nyssa al Ghul,” she said.

“No you can’t,” Laurel and Sara said, and Felicity almost sulked.

“Just think about your girlfriend,” Sara said, rolling her eyes at Laurel. “Think about how difficult life will be if we don’t do this.”

Felicity swiveled in indignation before she could stop herself. “You have a girlfriend?” she asked Laurel.

Laurel rolled her eyes. “She means you.”

“What?”

“They’ve been calling you that for nearly two months now.” Laurel continued to study whatever it was she found fascinating on the screen.

Felicity’s jaw swung gently in the breeze.

“Sorry?” Sara said. “To be fair, we all think it’s cute. Everybody knows about your crush. Has Laurel made her move yet?”

“Was kind of in the middle of it when you got here, sis,” Laurel said through her teeth.

“Well, this is more important. You two can sort out how much Laurel wants to pull on your pigtails later.”

“Sara,” Felicity and Laurel said in exactly the same tone.

“What? I’m just saying. It’s actively sad.”

“I hate you,” Laurel said.

Sara took the tablet back from her sister and scrubbed her finger along the playbar, stopping on what Felicity noticed was a very clear shot of Nyssa al Ghul mid-dance move and smirking. She’d gone to that spot before, Felicity realized through her utter mortification.

But there wasn’t time to point it out, for Sara made a derisive noise and looked at Felicity. “Here, I’ll help you out,” she said. “Felicity, my sister would like to take you to dinner, but she thinks you’re straighter than a ruler, no matter what we keep telling her. Just meet her at Shiny’s on Friday at seven and please put her out of her misery.”

“Believe it or not, we’d actually worked out the sexual orientation part on our own,” Laurel said. “Why are you being so mean?”

“Because I am _helping_.”

She was about to get helped into a trash compactor, as far as Felicity could tell by the look on Laurel’s face. “Shiny’s sounds great,” she said in a rush.

* * *

“I mean, if you’re uncomfortable with it—” Laurel lifted three boxes while Felicity struggled with just the one, “—you’re not technically moving in with me. You’re staying in Oliver’s room while he and Tommy go on their super-gay yacht trip. We’ll just be sharing the kitchen, the bathroom, and the den, and you barely go in there. So it’s not even that much of a commitment.”

“I’m not uncomfortable. Exactly. I’m not—okay, I’m a little uncomfortable.” Felicity groaned as Laurel kicked open the screen door, holding it open so she could go through first. She didn’t even look like she was struggling with what Felicity knew were three very heavy boxes of computer parts. She was never going to judge a pole-dancer ever again.

“Why?” Laurel asked.

Felicity set the box down on Oliver’s vacated bed. “Because it’s weird. Like, we’ve been on two dates and I’m moving in with you. It hits too close to the ‘lesbians bringing moving trucks to the second date’ jokes I’ve heard.”

“Neither of us is a lesbian.”

“Point still stands, Miss L2.”

“We’re roommates, not roommates.”

“Still.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Laurel strolled out of the room and Felicity followed. She only watched Laurel’s ass a little. Could she help it if the woman just walked that way? All of them did. Such easy, fluid grace, while Felicity sometimes felt like she did nothing but stumble in the heels she was teaching herself to navigate for internship. “I mean, what were your options? Dorm living where you’re basically locked in at nine o’clock every night like some kind of Puritan?”

“Don’t remind me. I could’ve stayed with Barry. He offered.”

“And watch him mope over Iris while she’s off backpacking?” Laurel grabbed another two boxes and hefted them easily. She’d effectively unloaded most of Felicity’s car in two trips, while Felicity had struggled all morning to get everything in the damn junker. “Because that sounds fun.”

“Don’t forget Cisco,” Felicity said, since she could see the humor a little. She grabbed her sheets, pillows, and Mr. Snuffles, balling them together so she could carry them inside. “He hasn’t stopped glaring at me since he saw us at Shiny’s together. Like, if looks could kill, I’d be six feet under.”

“He’s cute, but I’m already dating a nerd, thanks.”

Felicity wrinkled her nose, more at the fact that she could feel the blush spreading from her collarbones to her forehead than at the smirk Laurel shot over her shoulder. “If I’d had a little more time before this internship was sprung on me—”

“You were going to be here all the time anyway.”

Felicity choked.

“Not like that,” Laurel said, setting the boxes down. She cocked her hip against them and crossed her arms over her chest, tossing a lock of hair over her shoulder. She was going to rule the courtroom one day. “Well, not just like that. Sara’s furious Ollie’s gone, so she’s going to make us rehearse for the dance mob every day, and I’ve got the most space.”

Felicity groaned. “I forgot about that.”

“Trust me, _she_ didn’t.”

“I shouldn’t have promised her the thing with the lights.”

“Nope.”

“You know, they could just make out.” Felicity dumped her sheets on the bed and sat down, kicking the toe of her flip-flop against her box of computer manuals. “All they’re doing is some kind of weird competitive foreplay. So if they make out, it saves the rest of us a lot of work.”

“I don’t know, I’m kind of excited about this dance thing, even with Ollie gone.” Laurel opened the nearest box and tilted her head at the contents. “Is this fake? It looks like it’s from an old sci-fi movie where the monster’s zipper is clearly visible. Does it actually work?”

“If it’s the trash-eighty, then it kind of works. I’m busy coding an updated version of Zork, I’ve built up whole new levels and there’s this great algorithm that’ll actually let the game be far more interactive, which I didn’t think was going to work since the TRS-80, that’s like one of the junkiest things you can program on these days, I should’ve gone with the Commodore 64. And why are you looking at me like that?”

“I have no idea what you just said.” Laurel closed the box, but she was smiling. She dropped down onto the mattress next to Felicity, knocking her leg against her. “You should take it easy on your poor stripper roommate. That kind of talk’s liable to get a girl worked up.”

“I thought the ‘S’ word was banned around these parts.”

“Is it? Whoops.”

Laurel leaned over, threading her fingers through Felicity’s hair. She had just barely brushed her lips over Felicity’s when they both heard the screen door slam open and “Anybody here? Time to get to work!”

Felicity sighed and Laurel sat back with a grumbled wish to be an only child. “Speaking,” Felicity said, “of ‘S’ words that should be banned.”

Sara poked her head in. “This dance isn’t going to coordinate itself, you know.”

“Knock much?” Laurel said.

“You’re living together now, you’ve got plenty of time for that later. Move it.”

* * *

The house was empty when she dragged herself home from a twelve-hour shift at Merlyn Global, fixing a firewall problem that shouldn’t have happened in the first place. Felicity stared bleakly at the refrigerator, trying to remember if there was anything of value inside. If not, she’d have to call out. She could head down to the Foundry, she knew. They’d feed her and probably just let her sleep in Laurel’s chair all night, really. But the thought of pounding techno and top forties just wasn’t enough to make up for it. She’d call out for pizza.

When the phone buzzed, she jumped. She’d left her own phone on silent.

The phone buzzed again; she spotted it on the counter by a clipped-up bag of tortilla chips. “Dedicated law student, works full time at a physically demanding job, can’t be bothered to keep her phone on her,” she said, shaking her head again.

The phone buzzed a third time and Felicity’s fond smile turned to a frown. Usually the only person insistently texting Laurel was her. She sent a silent mental apology to her roommate-slash-girlfriend and swiped the screen to see six messages from Laurel’s father.

_Need u to stay away from 5th and Simone 2nite._

_Actually, stay out of downtown._

_Text me back plz_

_Laurel?_

_Why aren’t you picking up? Have u heard from Sara?_

“Oh, shit,” Felicity said, and scrambled for the door, her sore feet and exhaustion forgotten. She hopped in her car and punched the accelerator as hard as it would go.

Ten minutes later, she careened into the parking lot for the Foundry, glanced quickly at the street signs that read 5th Street and Simone Avenue, and ran for the door. “Laurel’s in there, right?” she asked Diggle.

“You okay?”

Felicity nodded. “I think trouble’s coming, but you didn’t hear it from me. Laurel?”

“She’s on in ten minutes—just go in.” He opened the staff door and she gave him a nod as she scrambled inside, back to the dressing rooms.

She ran into Laurel almost right inside, by the vending machine. Laurel lit up at seeing her. “Hey! I didn’t think you were going to be up for stopping by tonight and—what’s wrong?”

What was wrong was that she was out of breath and panicked and Laurel, whom she knew had danced at least two sets already, looked fresh as a daisy. Felicity pushed all of that aside. “Your dad doesn’t know you’re a dancer, right?”

“Of course not.”

“Then we have to get out of here right now. I think the cops are raiding this place. Where’s Sara? Is she here?”

“No, she’s with Nyssa and—a raid? Seriously?”

“Grab your clothes! We’ll take your car.”

“Shit!” Laurel spun and took off running far faster than Felicity could, which was impressive given the fact that her heels were three inches taller. She snatched up her gym bag from her locker and together they raced for the back door.

Right as they reached it, they heard “Police! Put your hands up!” from the front.

“Go, go, go,” Felicity said, “unless you want to have a very awkward conversation with your dad.”

They burst outside. Luckily, the cops had only come in the front doors, though Felicity saw a couple of dark shadows at the edges of her vision as she threw herself into the driver’s seat of Laurel’s car. She jammed her own key into the ignition, grateful that they’d traded car keys to help keep the driveway clear, and peeled out.

“Did they see us?” Laurel asked, twisting around in the seat to look out the rear window. “Oh, god, did they see us?”

“I don’t know. I think one of them might. We have to get off the road and, um, hide?”

“Hide?”

“I don’t know! I’ve never run from the cops before! I have no idea what I’m doing!”

“You seem like you’re on top of things to me.” Laurel cursed and rooted through her duffle bag. She yanked on her jeans. “But, um, the parking lot sounds like a good idea. If they pull us over on the road—”

“Yeah.” She swung into the next parking lot she could find, turned off the lights and the engine and sat there, gripping the steering wheel with shaking hands. “Just how much would your life be over if he’d caught you?”

“I don’t think we’re in the clear yet.” Headlights swung across the rearview mirror. Laurel twisted to look; Felicity saw the blood absolutely drain out of her face. “That’s his car. Shit, he’s here and I’m basically naked. Oh, god, there is no way to explain this. He’s going to know—”

“Does he know you’re bi?” Felicity said in a rush.

“What?”

“Your dad, does he know?”

“Y-yeah, he’s met one of my exes.”

“I can’t believe I’m about to do this.” Felicity yanked her own shirt off and practically dove across the stick-shift right as the car approached. She pushed at Laurel’s silk robe, shoving it back off of her shoulders so that she was truly topless.

“What—what are you doing?”

“Kiss me, duh.”

“Oh my god, we are not in a movie.” But Laurel yanked her down on top of her, kissing her so fiercely that she nearly bit through Felicity’s lip. Felicity could feel her shaking, adrenaline, fear, heart-pounding terror. The pasties scratched against Felicity’s chest, which was a little confusing because weren’t those things supposed to be soft? But then, Laurel never kissed her while wearing her dancing outfits, so maybe it was just an appearance thing. Felicity angled her head, shifting in closer to keep the dashboard from pressing into the small of her back.

The tap of a flashlight against the glass actually made her jump. Thankfully, Laurel was at least cognizant enough to keep her grip on Felicity, preventing her from scrambling away and revealing the pasties.

As it was, it made for a very shocked, awkward moment as Detective Quentin Lance stared into the car in absolute horror and dismay.

“L-Laurel?”

“Dad? What the—oh my god, Dad! Turn around!”

Mercifully, Lance spun around. “What the hell are you doing?” he said over his shoulder. “Do you have any idea what part of town you’re in? Necking? In your car like a teenager? Put some damn clothes on. That goes for you, too, Miss whatever your name is.”

“F-Felicity,” Felicity said, scrambling back into the driver’s seat as Laurel finally pulled on her shirt. She reached under it and pulled off the pasties, tossing them discreetly into the backseat. Instead of trying to get into her button-down shirt again—as she was pretty sure she’d wrecked it—Felicity grabbed Laurel’s Starling U hoodie instead and tugged that over her head.

“Out of the car, both of you,” Lance said. “I want some answers. You’re both coming downtown with me.”

Two hours later, stomach jumping, Felicity stepped out of the interrogation room. Laurel, who’d been pacing the waiting room with a disgruntled look on her face, immediately rushed up and hugged her. “I am so sorry. I’ve been arguing with everybody in here that he had no right to hold you, but—”

“Second-year law student, and they still managed to stand up to you?” Felicity rested her forehead against Laurel’s shoulder. “I’m impressed. Well, I’d be more impressed if—well, let’s just say I’ve never exactly been interrogated by the father of anybody I’m dating in an actual police station before, that’s a new one.”

“I am going to kill him,” Laurel said, looking furious.

“Probably want to wait until we’re not in the police station to say that.”

“What did he even say to you?”

“Just that if I hurt you, he knows all the good places to hide the bodies.”

“I’ll risk prison. I really am going to kill him.” Laurel rubbed her back.

“It’d almost be sweet, if he weren’t, you know, a cop. At least he didn’t put me in handcuffs. God, that was nerve-wracking. Also, I’m supposed to come over for dinner to meet your mom next week.”

“Fat chance of that happening since I’ll have murdered him by then,” Laurel said, raising her voice on the last few words. Felicity stepped back to see Detective Lance standing nearby with his hands in his pockets, squinting at the pair of them. “Was that really necessary? Really, Dad? She’s my girlfriend. I met her at school, not on the chain gang.”

“She checks out. See you at dinner, Felicity.”

“See you then, Detective.”

Lance winked at her as he walked by, and Laurel gaped, which was when Felicity finally let the grin she’d been holding back break through.

“Oh my god, you won him over?” Laurel asked. “Wait, what the hell am I talking about? Of course you did. But you guys were in there for nearly an hour!”

“I can be charming when I want to be, and clearly he thinks I’m a better choice than Oliver. There’s pizza. Did you want some?” Felicity jerked her thumb at the interrogation room behind her. “Apparently their raid on the Foundry didn’t turn anything up, so…pizza. And the good news is, your dad has no idea about what you do for a living. As far as he’s concerned, the only thing you do is, well, me. Oh, god, is this place bugged? Did he hear that?”

Laurel surprised her by laughing and hugging her. “You are my hero,” she said, giving Felicity a giant, smacking kiss on the temple. “My hero.”

“Are you saying that because of my quick thinking in the face of danger or because I offered you pizza?”

“The answer’s obvious.”

“Right.” Felicity, mindful of the fact that they were still surrounded by Detective Lance’s colleagues and that the interrogation hadn’t been entirely as friendly as she’d played it for Laurel, sneaked in the fastest kiss possible and smiled. “Well, in that case, the pizza’s this way.”

* * *

Two days after their exciting escape from the raid, Felicity woke up in bed with someone else.

She opened her eyes and found her face-to-nose with the wall and there was a pressing awareness of an elbow digging into the center of her back. It was the opposite of romantic. Apparently Laurel, she thought, was a bed-hog. Though she didn’t remember crawling in with Laurel, or having her girlfriend sneak into her bed. All she remembered, actually, was staying up late to fix a bug in the code that had led to three more bugs and then essentially rebuilding an entire section from scratch because it just wasn’t up to snuff.

When she carefully rolled over, she was even more confused. Laurel was in the doorway, a cup of coffee steaming away in one hand as she regarded the bed.

“What the…” Felicity looked down and nearly shrieked.

Oliver took up most of the bed, the blankets, and the pillows, sprawled on his stomach. He wore a tank top, mercifully, but it left his very tanned muscles on obvious display. Especially the muscles on the arm he’d slung across Felicity.

“The hell?” Felicity asked, rubbing at her eyes. Then she realized something, and cold panic dropped through her stomach. “This isn’t what it looks like, I swear. Unless I got drunk or roofied and even then—”

“It’s okay,” Laurel said. “Nothing happened.”

“Wh-what? How do you know?”

“Because he’s Oliver. There was a fifty-fifty chance he’d have just crawled in with me. I guess he wanted his own bed more than he wanted to respect your boundaries.” Laurel’s puzzlement turned to a frown as she stepped closer. She took a sip of her coffee. “Something’s wrong.”

“What?”

“He’s back too early. Something happened.”

“I can’t move,” Felicity said, since Oliver was kind of big and blocking all of her exits out of her—well, technically now that he was back, his—bed. “Help?”

Laurel dipped her finger in the coffee and flicked it at Oliver, who started and writhed about. “Hey, Magic Mike, why are you in bed with my girlfriend?”

“Don’t call me that.” Oliver burrowed his way deeper into the covers. “I don’t want to talk about it yet, and I’m in bed with your girlfriend because she stole my bed.”

“Borrowed it for the summer while you’re off with your boy-toy on your yacht, actually,” Laurel said.

“Well, that’s over now, so go away and let me sleep. I’ll give your girlfriend back later.”

“Free Felicity first,” Laurel said, raising an unimpressed eyebrow.

“You should share.” Oliver opened one eye to give her a malevolent look. “I’ve had a bad day.”

“You’re making her uncomfortable, Dancing Queen. She’s a human being, not a teddy bear.”

“I know that. And don’t call me that, either.”

Felicity, feeling like she was about to become the very unfortunate rope in a game of tug of war between two very pretty people, cleared her throat. “I mean, it’s nice to be loved and all, but I really need to pee, so…”

Oliver grumbled and finally moved his arm off of her. When Laurel held out a hand, Felicity grabbed it and let her girlfriend help her scramble out of the bed.

A few minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom, having at least brushed her teeth. She squinted when Laurel covered the bottom of her face to obviously conceal a smile. “I know, I know, I’m not awake yet. I’m going to crash on the couch—unless you think Oliver’s going to find me there and spoon me again.”

“Just take my bed,” Laurel said.

Felicity felt her heart trip a little. There’d been some making out, some foreplay, and that breathless night being caught by Laurel’s dad shirtless. But—

“It’s fine,” Laurel said. “All I was going to do was read some briefs until Oliver wakes up and I can interrogate him since Tommy’s not answering my texts. I can do that on the couch. I promise you, there will be no dancers non-consensually spooning you when you wake up.”

“I’m amazed it hasn’t happened more often,” Felicity said, shaking her head as she stumbled in the direction of Laurel’s bedroom. Which always smelled like jasmine and whatever fabric softener she used. It was kind of amazing. “I mean, you hang out with dancers all the time, you get used to the lack of body-modesty and personal space rather quickly. And sometimes it’s nice. I mean, you know.” She peeked at Laurel real quick. “Depending on who the dancer is.”

Laurel sipped her coffee. “Is that your way of saying you’d be okay with consensual spooning?”

“Maybe. Just throwing that out there.”

She felt something grab the back of her tank top. “Hey, wait,” Laurel said, tugging Felicity back. Barefoot, they were the same height for once—Felicity might be learning to like her internship heels, but Laurel always wore those monster heels for work and towered over her. Laurel wrapped her free arm around Felicity and kissed her slowly. As usual, she tasted like coffee. “Sorry about Oliver.”

“He’s obviously hurting,” Felicity said, shaking her head. She toyed with the drawstrings on Laurel’s sweatshirt. Why did she always feel so damn shy around a woman who had been almost entirely naked during their very first conversation? It was always a struggle not to give in to the full body blush whenever Laurel turned that smile on her. “I hope Tommy’s okay.”

“Me too.” Laurel kissed her again, and stepped back. “You should go back to sleep, though. I heard you up at three a.m.”

Felicity laughed tiredly. Of course she had. She pushed Laurel’s bedroom door open and stumbled over to the bed, burrowing under covers and surrounded by the smell of Laurel’s shampoo. Sleep claimed her almost instantly after that, though she did hear the door open and close. This time, when arms came around her, she didn’t tense.

* * *

“I have to say,” Oliver said as he dropped onto the couch next to Felicity, sun-dark and still smelling faintly of sea-salt, “I was sure my bed was going to be empty. I thought you two’d be sleeping together by this point.”

“You were only gone for like three weeks,” Felicity said, giving him an unimpressed look over her laptop.

He stretched his arm out over the back of the couch. “You’re a college senior now. Knowing somebody six hours before jumping into the sack with them is an acceptable length of time. Three weeks is an eternity.”

“Only young once, huh? That’s the ‘encouraging’ advice you’re going with?”

“I know for a fact you use your wiles to get frat boys and dancers to do things for you. Get half a beer in you and you brag about it. So clearly you know how to have some fun.”

“Manipulating horny boys whose drunken intellect is roughly equivalent to that of a sober tadpole isn’t exactly the same thing as not wanting to rush the fences. Not that Laurel has, you know, fences. It’s just a metaphor. A really bad one, now that I think about it.” Felicity wrinkled her nose when Oliver began to chuckle. “Stop that.”

“Laurel doesn’t have fences. She has stone walls.”

They all did, in Felicity’s opinion. The masks they wore at the Foundry likely gave them a healthier perspective on the fact that they were essentially selling their bodies—or their performances, at any rate—than a lot of strip joints. But Felicity knew a lot of dancers turned to depression and substance abuse for a reason and if her crew only dealt with the occasional joint or whatever it was that Oliver brought home, then having some emotional stone walls was an acceptable compromise in her books.

But she still snorted now. “Like you’re one to talk.”

Oliver rested his head back against the couch and gave her an easy, winning smile. “Nope. I’m an open book. Always have been.”

“Then how come you won’t tell Laurel what really happened on the yacht?”

“Because there’s nothing to tell.”

“She’s going to keep at both of you until one of you comes clean.” Felicity fixed a typo in her code that would have made compiling a nightmare. Just how tired had she been last night? “My money’s on you breaking first.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Oliver made a face.

“You live and work with the woman. I know how persistent she can be.”

“And yet, you were in my bed when I got home this morning.”

“You were away for the summer. That makes it my bed. And nice deflection, ace.”

“Look, if you’re honestly nervous about doing the deed with Laurel, I can give you plenty of tips. I am, like, the expert.” Oliver buffed his fingernails on his slouchy tank top and admired them before shooting her a shit-eating grin.

“Nope,” Felicity said. “With an extra side of no way. Actually, there’s a lot of ‘hell no’ to go around. If and when I sleep with Laurel, I will not have advice from her extremely hot ex-boyfriend bouncing around in this head. I drop enough terrible innuendo as it is. I do not need the mortifying experience of bringing you up mid-coitus to potentially add to that more than it already exists.”

Oliver perked up. “You think I’m extremely hot?”

“You’ve known that since the first time I opened my mouth in front of you. But it’s nice to know that vanity’s still in place.”

“You’re all right, Felicity.”

“Thanks.”

“If you were a dude, you might even be my soulmate.”

“Aw,” Felicity said, patting him on his incredibly muscular shoulder. “You’re sweet when you want to be.”

Sweet, she thought, and hurting. For all that he smiled and flirted, she could see the shadows under his eyes that even his tan couldn’t hide. And the pain that lurked behind his expression. Whatever had happened on the yacht, it had been pretty terrible. She hoped they hadn’t broken up. Once she’d cottoned on to what had been going on under her nose the whole time, she had to admit they were incredibly cute together. In that vaguely douchey rich boy way.

“Also I think Tommy might protest,” she said after a minute.

Oliver sighed. “Yeah,” was all he said to that. “But the good news is that if you were a dude, I’m pretty sure Laurel would still fight me for you.”

Felicity had to laugh.

“Which is yet another reason you two should, you know, bang.”

“Thanks for the dating advice, Ollie.”

Oliver wrinkled his nose. “You don’t have to call me that just because Sara and Laurel do, I swear. I’m perfectly fine being the full Oliver.”

“Like the full Monty?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He ruffled her hair, grinning when she stuck her tongue out at him. “What are you even doing? Please tell me it’s not homework or else I’ll have to educate you on the importance of a proper summer break for the health of growing young minds.”

“It’s homework,” Felicity said, cheerfully.

“That’s disappointing to me on so many levels. You should put it away. I could give you tips on how to deal with Laurel. Like important tips. Stuff you should know, like what not to be doing when you meet her cop dad for the first time.”

Felicity chewed on her bottom lip and carefully closed the laptop lid since it didn’t look like Oliver was going to give up until she entertained him. “I’m going to guess ‘while making out topless in a car with her in a bad part of town while we’re actually secretly running from police’ is on top of that list,” she said.

Oliver squinted at her. “That sounds way too specific to be made up.”

Felicity merely continued to chew on her lip.

“Holy shit—seriously?”

“He put me in the interrogation room for like an hour,” Felicity said, spreading her hands innocently. “Not in, like, handcuffs or anything. But there was some definite grilling going on.”

Oliver pushed his hands through his hair, which had gotten a little shaggy thanks to his time at sea. He rocked forward. “I just had my hand up her shirt in her bedroom! How is your story more horrifying than mine? You’re so wholesome! I literally make those ‘slutty playboy’ lists every year and you—you look like you’re in the tenth grade.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Felicity said, throwing a pencil at him. “We weren’t actually making out, we were—it was a fake-out make-out. She didn’t want her dad knowing what she does for a living and she still had the pasties on, so we improvised.”

“Whose idea was it, though?”

Felicity felt the blush start at her neck and cursed. “Technically, it was mine. But she was into it!”

“Yeah, I bet she was. Who knew we had such a criminal mastermind in our midst?”

“Good thing I’m dating a lawyer.”

“Yeah, sooner or later you’re going to need one. Wait, go back, start from the beginning. You were running from the police? I thought you were an IT nerd.”

Felicity sighed and recounted the tale from the beginning, as she’d already had to tell it to Barry, Sara, Iris (via Skype), Caitlin, and Cisco (who’d glared). Oliver absolutely lost it, falling off the couch and laughing so hard that tears ran down his face. And it was funny, Felicity supposed, if you hadn’t lived it and weren’t going to face the rest of your life with the knowledge that you’d nearly flashed your tits at your girlfriend’s dad the first time you met him.

Oliver’s laughter finally subsided to hiccups. “I need to go away more often,” he said, wiping at his eyes. “The best shit happens to you two while I’m gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plans for this story involved the strippers all joining up together to form an epic mob dance against Nyssa's League of Dance-sassins or whatever, and a lot more about Tommy and Oliver's drama, which was his father cutting him out of the company because he was gay. Laurel's night job would've been revealed to her father, causing strife in the family, and Felicity probably would've ended up on stage at least once to cover for her friends. Abandoned because I just don't have the time to commit to the 'verse for another 10k.


	3. Heartburn in Heels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 800 words of William Brandt vs. Ilsa Faust, from Rogue Nation. For Shenshen77!

At this point in the game, William Brandt is sure they’re doing it on purpose.

They know he reports in to Langley six days a week (when he’s not in the field), and it would be easiest to simply hand him an Eyes Only file via any courier under the sun. But no, the IMF has always prided itself on several things: impossible missions, living its entire existence on the brink of being shut down and branded a legion of traitors, and incredible theatrics. Which is why William Brandt is wearing a Green Lantern T-shirt that he borrowed from his nephew and walking to the archives back room in East Side Comics in Bethesda, Maryland, and why he just had to memorize far more than he ever wanted to know about the Ghost Rider, whoever the fuck that is.

Nothing looks out of place in the archives room—in fact, it looks exactly like any nerdy den of iniquity, down to a wilting banana peel that missed the trash can. He sits down and carefully removes the vintage comic from the bag and board before fitting in the earpiece the cashier slipped him with his change.

When he opens the comic book, he hears the whir of the tiny processor and a hologram appears over the book. He stays still as the retinal scan completes.

<<BRANDT, WILLIAM C. GREETINGS, AGENT BRANDT.>>

Mission details filter through the earpiece and the hologram, and he files it away. Unrest in Malaysia, one of the diamond cartel leaders that might have his fingers in a number of different illicit pies. Leader has data about nuclear codes he’s not supposed to have, retrieval of the data needed, so on and so forth, everything he’s used to, until—

“The IMF has recently hired on a new operative. Since you are familiar with the modus operandi of the newest agent, your mission—should you choose to accept it—is to assist probationary agent Ilsa Faust in securing the data held by cartel leader Bors Jürghen before he can implement any of his suspected terrorism attacks.”

Ilsa Faust’s file pops up on the screen and Brandt bites his tongue, hard.

He thought she faded into the ether like the nuisance of a  ghost she was supposed to be.

“Accept,” he says because that’s what you say.

“Good luck. Agent Faust has been instructed to contact you. This message will self destruct in five...four…”

Brandt steps out of the back room and closes the door right before a tiny puff of gray smoke wafts under the door. He nods at the comic shop owner, who ignores him, and steps out in the night beyond. Only after he’s checked to make sure he’s not being watched does he run his hand over his face. 

“This is going to be like working with Ethan all over again.”

He’s not wrong.

* * *

He’s a considerate team member. A team player, even. Or at least that’s what he likes to tell himself. So he keeps to public places that are practically swiss cheese as far as video surveillance is concerned. Letting Ilsa Faust come out of the cold in a way that’s comfortable, even though he doesn’t trust her as far as he can throw her (blindfolded and with two broken arms, even. Ethan might swear she’s on their side, but Brandt hasn’t seen nearly enough evidence). But if they’re going to work to take down Jürghen, then fine, he’ll play along.

Instead, she pops up in the Starbucks off the lobby in Langley.

“Fun weekend?” she asks as she hands him his venti flat white and Benji’s grande iced sugar-free vanilla latte with soy milk.

Brandt just gapes. “How…”

“My shift’s over in twenty minutes. See you outside?” And she goes on to serve the next customer.

“You were kind of expecting her to cold-approach you when you were buying avocados,” Benji says as he downs half his drink. “It’s only fair.”

“How did she even get here, let alone as a worker? This is Langley. It’s not like it’s just the Starbucks down on Grand or something.”

“And she’s Ilsa.” Benji shrugs. “How’d she look? I usually meet her for a drink every once in awhile, but we’ve both been so busy. She told me she was maybe looking into a new position. No idea it was with us.”

“Uh…” Brandt just runs his hand over his face and shakes his head. This continues to be his life, he thinks. “She looks good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, healthy. Starbucks apron really brings out her eyes.”

“Excellent. I hope she’ll have time to meet up for a drink later before you two go zipping off to wherever it is you’re going.”

Brandt snorts. Like Benji doesn’t know already.


	4. Tinier Laura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Closing out my abandoned fic archives (since I'm going to finish the Wolverine Carmilla fic, I've decided), here's 3k of Laura and Carmilla dealing with a tiny problem that shows up in their dorm room. Literally. A tiny problem.

Carmilla wishes explosions at Silas were rarer than they were. She really does. Over three hundred years and she’s seen some great ones, but in reality, they’re just annoying and destructive.

An explosion in her dorm room, though, that’s new.

One second she’s reading _Dr. Faustus_ and Laura’s chattering away to that damn camera and then—BOOM. The blast throws her back into the wall and for a second, all direction and reality becomes meaningless. When she comes to, smoke fills her nostrils and clouds her vision and she coughs several times to get rid of the taste and the smell. She waves her hand in front of her face. “What the hell was th—Laura!”

The computer chair is completely empty.

Oh, god.

“Laura!” Carmilla surges to her feet right as the door bangs open and Perry and LaFontaine spill inside.

“What happened?” Perry is no doubt freaking out that their room is completely in shambles. “Where’s Laura?”

“I don’t—”

Something moves on Laura’s bed and Carmilla practically teleports over there, she moves so fast. She hears a high-pitched whimper and something about it strikes her as off, but she shoves that aside and wrestles the covers off of her girlfriend. Or the lump she suspects is her girlfriend.

It’s not her girlfriend. Not unless Laura has de-aged a decade and a half.

Carmilla, Perry, and LaFontaine freeze at the sight. There’s a little girl struggling in the tangled mess of sheets on Laura’s bed. A tiny, skinny thing in a bright pink shirt and polka-dotted legging pants and tiny yellow shoes. Carmilla bites her tongue hard before she curses.

“L-Laura? What has the alchemy club done now?” Perry absolutely moans and if LaFontaine weren’t there, she might swoon.

The little girl finally frees herself from the sheets and Carmilla realizes three things at once: firstly, that a child that small can let out the loudest wail she’s ever heard, that the leftover smoke from the explosion smells like tangerines, and that _this_ must be what Laura looked like as a tiny child. She has the same hair, stuck somewhere between blonde and brown, her features are miniaturized, and she has her nose bunched up as she wails.

“Oh, god, what have they done to her?” Perry asks, reaching for the girl—who scrambles away. “Laura, it’s okay, we’re going to fix this—”

“Fix what?” a voice croaks from the bathroom, and Carmilla looks up to see Laura standing there with glassy eyes and a heavily bleeding cut on her forehead.

She instinctively takes a step back, away from the blood. She has some control, but…

“What the Hufflepuff?” Laura asks, and the tiny version of her on the bed begins to wail loudly. “Who is that?”

“Uh, it’s you,” LaFontaine supplies. “But like a kid version of you. She’s your doppelgänger.”

But Laura, who’s taken the dish towel and ice pack Perry holds out, only frowns. Before she can step near the girl, though, Perry gently pushes her back. She’s bleeding way too much. “I didn’t look like that at that age,” Laura says, and Carmilla nearly snorts and tells her to pull the other one. This girl is like somebody stuck Laura in that flying blue box from that dumb show she likes and sent her back a decade. 

But then the girl sobs and Carmilla realizes they’ve got bigger problems.

“Mum!” The girl dives at Carmilla, her arms banded tight around Carmilla’s waist, and the room goes absolutely silent.

“Did she...did she just call you Mum?” LaFontaine’s eyes have been wider, Carmilla's sure, but usually it requires more than an explosion before they get to this level. “I’m…hearing that, right? Everybody’s hearing that? My hearing's fine?”

Carmilla doesn't move. First of all, Tinier Laura has a terrifyingly strong grip. Like, vampire strong. So she can't actually move. Secondly, there's a moppet clinging to her and she's pretty sure she had this nightmare after a repeated viewing of _Salem’s Lot_. She keeps staring at Laura across the room. Surely Laura can fix this.

“Yes, no, she definitely called her Mum,” Perry says. “Carmilla, I think…”

“Don’t finish that sentence if you know what’s good for you, Ginger Crocker,” Carmilla says.

This proves to be a mistake because Tinier Laura lets out a noise that’s partially a sob and partially a wail and starts hiccuping.

“Um, maybe don’t threaten anybody?” Perry says. “I think you’re scaring her. You could maybe pick her up?”

Carmilla finally gives in and sends her most helpless look to the actual regular-sized Laura, who is the one that knows how to deal with these messy human emotions. She’s not that much taller than most children herself, and childhood is more recent for her than it is for Carmilla. Surely she can deal with this?

Laura, mercifully, seems to shake herself out of her stupor. She steps forward, reaching for Tinier Laura—who promptly shrieks and clings tighter to Carmilla.

“Sorry, Carm,” Laura says, stepping back with her hands up. “She only seems to want you.”

“Yeah, and she’s actually strong enough to break something.” Carmilla sighs and reaches down, grabbing the girl under her arms and pulling her up. The kid burrows in, wrapping her legs around Carmilla’s waist and tucking her head in against her shoulder like she’s done this a thousand times. She snuffles wetly against Carmilla’s jacket. “Great. Now what?”

“I have to ask something that I know might lead to oversharing, but, uh, satisfy my curiosity as best you can without any of us needing brain bleach,” LaFontaine says, cramming their hands in their pockets.

Carmilla glares at them. “Get to the point.”

“We could be dealing with a de-aged Laura—”

“We’re not,” Laura says. “My hair—”

“Is it possible she’s calling you ‘Mum’ out of, um, a history of bedroom roleplaying? I mean, nobody’s been successful at de-aging somebody, the elasticity of the brain—”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Laura says, and it takes Carmilla another few seconds to get what LaFontaine is trying and mostly failing to say. She and Laura make identical scrunched of faces of disgust and disbelief. “No, we do not do that kind of roleplaying. I have never in any way, shape, or form referred to Carm as my mother—oh my god—”

“Hey, I wasn’t going to judge,” LaFontaine says, but they’re a little pink around the cheeks. “I’m just offering alternate hypotheses because there is a small child with a strong resemblance to Laura clinging to Carmilla, calling her Mum, and crying a bit too hard for us to get real answers.”

“She’s scared,” Laura says, shifting the ice pack against her forehead. The towel is turning red at an alarming rate. At least she’s sitting down. “There was an explosion, in case we’ve all forgotten. That’s scary for me, and I’m nearly twenty, I can’t even imagine what it’d be like for a three-year-old.”

“I’m four and a half!” The moppet clinging to Carmilla lifts her head suddenly, all tears cut off. She must have understood the number, if nothing else.

“Oh. I’m sorry,” Laura says. “Four and a half. You’re very grown-up.”

The girl eyes her older doppelgänger warily and then swivels to look up at Carmilla. In a very loud whisper, she says, “Who are these people? Are they strangers?”

“They’re definitely strange,” Carmilla says.

“Carm,” Laura says when the girl whimpers and hides her face against Carmilla’s shirt again.

Carmilla rolls her eyes back at her girlfriend. Fine, whatever. Stop terrifying the moppet, got it. “But they won’t hurt you. These are my…friends?”

“For a given definition of friends, certainly,” Perry says under her breath and Carmilla’s actually a little impressed that Red Two has some snark left.

“We’re just trying to figure out what happened,” Laura says in a gentle voice, and she’s actually good with kids, why doesn’t the miniature version of her cling to Laura instead? “But you’re safe here. You’ve got—you’ve got your mum, right?”

The girl looks mistrustfully at Laura, but she nods, curling in against Carmilla, who would much rather be dealing with Laura’s head wound if Laura’s not going to do something about it. The smell of blood’s getting a little strong, actually. She can feel her fangs poking out a little.

“Laura,” she says, eyes flicking up to the gash. “You need to see to that.”

“I’ll help,” Perry says before Laura can protest, and just like that, she’s dragging Laura into the bathroom to hopefully wash away the blood and deal with the wound before Laura can do something idiotic like pass out or die. That just leaves LaFontaine—still standing awkwardly and looking at the child like they kind of want to take a blood sample or five—and Carmilla with the kid.

Sighing, Carmilla sits down on her bed. The kid slithers around like a monkey, sitting on her lap like she belongs there or something. Why the hell is her life so strange? And the kid really does look like somebody grabbed a shrink-ray and hit Laura with it, which makes no sense because Laura is in the bathroom getting stitched up. The world does not need two Laura Hollises. The world can barely handle one, if the past year has been any indication.

“I’m—going to go call my friend in the alchemy club,” LaFontaine says, and practically runs for the door like the coward they are. “Really get some answers, get this all cleared up. Call me if you change your mind about the hair and blood samples.”

“Good luck getting through the creampuff on that,” Carmilla says, and LaFontaine vanishes. Carmilla looks at the child on her lap in general bafflement. “What am I going to do with you, Fun Size?”

The girl sniffles and wipes a giant line of snot down her forearm, which: gross. Carmilla sighs, leans over, and grabs Laura’s towel from earlier—she does laundry more often, after all—to at least attempt to clean up the girl’s face. Mini-Laura merely watches Carmilla’s face somberly as Carmilla does her best to wipe up the tears and snot and drool. “Better?” Carmilla asks, though she’s really not sure why she’s even talking to the kid. Can it understand English?

Apparently so. Mini-Laura nods and rests her head against Carmilla’s chest. “I don’t like this place. Can we go home? I want to go home. I can’t find Pertie and I think he’s at home.”

Having absolutely no idea what Pertie is, Carmilla can only shrug. “I’m sure we’ll get you home one way or another, kid.”

“Do you mean it or are you just saying that?”

Well, this kid has her number already.

“I’m doing the best I can here. Want a grape soda or something?”

The girl’s eyes go comically wide. Christ, she’s just like Laura. “I’m allowed to have two today?” 

“Sure. Stay put a second.” It’s like unlatching Laura when she’s feeling extra cuddly, but Carmilla extracts herself from the vise-like grip of the child and goes to pull two cans of soda out of the fridge. She opens one and passes it to the kid, eyebrows going up when the child guzzles at the can. Okay, some things definitely survived the cloning and de-aging. 

She has nobody but herself to blame when Mini-Laura climbs back into her lap and sags against her like she’s exhausted. She continues to drink the soda, which looks comically huge in her tiny hands.

They both look up when Laura, head bandaged, emerges from the bathroom. She pulls up short. “Should she be drinking that?” she asks, looking at the miniature version of herself.

Carmilla shrugs again. It’s keeping the moppet quiet. “Are you really in any position ever to judge somebody’s sugar intake?”

“I’m an adult, Carm, that’s a child. Shouldn’t she be drinking milk or something?”

“Pretty sure we can’t give her the stuff we keep in the milk container, cupcake.”

Perry chooses that moment to exit the bathroom, looks at the child edition of Laura, shakes her head tightly like she just can’t handle any more of this, and hurries out of the room. For somebody that once nearly brought about the end of Silas single-handedly, she has a hard time dealing with magic these days.

“She seems to like it,” Carmilla says, looking down at the girl with the soda can. “Don’t you, creampufflet?”

Laura groans at the nickname, making both Carmilla and the girl look over at her. But instead of scolding, Laura freezes, her eyes going wide again as she looks at the girl. “Carm,” she breathes, sitting down on the edge of her bed. Hard. “Carm. She has your eyes.”

“What?” In an instant, Carmilla has snatched up the child and is holding her up so they’re face to face. Everything goes cold as she realizes that Laura is right: those are definitely her eyes in Laura Hollis’s face. Carmilla stares until it makes sense, and when that doesn’t happen just lowers the girl back onto her lap. She never stops clutching her soda can. “What is going on?”

“Uh, there’s a miniature version of both of us in your lap, that’s what’s going on,” Laura says. “I told you I didn’t look like that when I was her age. I was a lot chubbier.”

Carmilla raises an eyebrow.

“Hey, baby fat is totally a thing,” Laura says, glowering. “You were probably skinny, but I bet you had, like, knobby knees or something as a kid. You couldn’t have always been perfect.”

Tiny Laura—no, Tiny Laura-and-or-Carmilla—finishes her grape soda and silently hands Carmilla the empty can. “Can I have another?” she asks, completely disinterested in the conversation happening over her head.

“No,” Carmilla says, and turns back to Laura. “What—how is this even possible?”

“You haven’t come across this before? It’s not a vampire thing?”

“But Mum, I’m really thirsty.”

“It’s not a vampire thing,” Carmilla says, shaking her head because there’s something close to panic in her chest. This is a child that’s half her and half Laura, and in addition to not being biologically possible, it’s also terrifying. Is this some kind of mind game trick sent by her enemies? Is this just a weird alchemy club thing? And why does the kid only know her and not Laura, if it’s obvious Laura is her other parent? “I don’t know what this is. I have never come across anything like this before.”

“Hoo boy.” Laura blows out a breath and gives the girl a gentle smile. “Hi. I’m sorry I scared you earlier.”

Kid-Them just looks at her warily.

“I’m Laura,” Laura says, holding a hand out. “What’s your name?”

The kid looks at Carmilla. 

“Uh, it’s okay. She won’t bite. You can talk to her,” Carmilla says when Laura clears her throat and she realizes they’re waiting on her.

The girl hunches in on herself. “’Rora,” she says.

“Aurora?” Laura guesses, and the girl nods. “That’s a really pretty name. I bet your Mum picked it.”

Carmilla glares at her because she did no such thing and Laura knows that.

Aurora sticks her finger in her mouth and nods. “I miss Pertie. He’s not here. I want to go home and see him.”

“I have no idea what this Pertie thing is,” Carmilla mouths to Laura.

Laura frowns, though, her head tilted. Carmilla can practically hear the gears grinding and beginning to smoke in her brain. She kneels and pulls a tote bin out from under her bed, rooting through until she pulls out a stuffed gray…thing. It looks like it’s seen better decades, but that doesn’t seem to matter to Aurora, who flies out of Carmilla’s lap with an overjoyed cry. “Pertie! You fixed his wing!”

It’s a pterodactyl, Carmilla sees now, with a weird bird-like face, and why does Laura even have that? Is that a childhood stuffed animal?

“Yup, good as new,” Laura says. “To you, especially. Why don’t you get reacquainted with him while I borrow your Mum for a second? We’ll just be right there.”

She hauls Carmilla over to the bathroom, keeping Aurora in sight even though the girl seems completely engrossed with the toy. “What is that thing?” Carmilla asks right away.

“Petrie,” Laura says. “He’s from a movie I liked as a kid and—you know what, it’s not important.”

“I kind of think it is important because I need about ten minutes just to mock you for having a stuffed animal under your bed—”

“Carmilla,” Laura says, and Carmilla sighs, nobly biting off some of her best material. She’ll tease Laura about her unorthodox teddy bear later. “Um, I am freaking out right now, seriously. That little girl looks like us, she’s clearly got some version of my old stuffed animal with a damaged wing, and she thinks you’re her mother.”

“Yes, thank you for recapping the situation, buttercup. I was there.”

“Is it possible that…somehow we have a kid in the future and she traveled back in time?”

“In what? Your mug?”

“Or the real thing,” Laura says, chewing on her bottom lip.

“That’s a TV show, Laura.” Not a particularly good one, in Carmilla’s opinion, but she’s learned not to say that in front of Laura unless she wants to be subjected to any number of rants. “The idea of us having a child together is preposterous in the first place, but having her drop through time thanks to a blue phone booth—”

“Police box.”

“—is also ridiculous. This is the alchemy club or a really bad batch of acid. Or something.”

Laura gives her a stubborn look, holds one finger up, and crosses the room to Aurora, who’s making chittering noises as she flies Petrie or Pertie or whoever it is around. “Hey,” she says, and Aurora barely looks at her. “Do you know what year it is?”

“Sure.” Aurora lowers Pertie. “It’s 2030 cos that’s the year I turn five. Mum said so. Can we take Pertie to the park?”

“20—” Laura chokes, and Carmilla thinks for the first time that Laura may have a point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all the fic I've abandoned in 2015! See you in 2016 for more fun!


End file.
